THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2010  witli  funding  from 

University  of  Nortli  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/muteconfessorromOOharb 


A    MUTE    CONFESSOR: 

THE 

ROMANCE   OF  A  SOUTHERN   TOWN. 


BY 

WILLIAM  N.  HARBEN, 

Author  of  "  IVhite  JSlarie,"  '^Almost  Persuaded.'' 


BOSTON,  MASS. : 

fcOPLEY  SQUAKE, 
1892. 


Copyrighted  by 

ARENA  PUBLISHING  COMPANY, 

1891. 


TO  MY  SISTER  GEORGIE. 


A  MUTE  CONFESSOR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Among  Edgar  Morton's  acquaintances  it  went 
without  saying  that  he  had  marked  peculiarities. 
Some  of  his  most  intimate  friends  admitted  that 
there  were  times  when,  faihng  to  fathom  his 
fitful  moods,  they  felt  uncomfortable  in  his 
company. 

He  was  young,  handsome,  tall,  and  had  a 
commanding  figure.  His  high,  broad  forehead 
was  indicative  of  a  lofty  and  poetic  intellect. 
His  eyes  and  hair  were  very  dark,  his  features 
as  clear-cut  as  a  cameo.  People  were  rarely 
free  with  him,  for  he  was  exceedingly  reserved. 

"  Egad  !  "  once  said  a  noted  politician,  who 
figured  extensively  in  New  York  society  and  had 
met  Edgfar  several  times  at  the  "  Authors'  Club  " 


6  %  §Uu  atowiwift 

— "  egad,  that  young  fellow  is  as  reserved  as 
the  North  Pole  ;  but  mind  my  words,  he'll  come 
to  the  front  one  of  these  days  !  He  has  just 
enough  of  the  mysterious  about  him  to  make 
him  take.  He  knows  when  to  hold  his  tongue ; 
when  he  is  not  thoroughly  posted  he  is  as  mute 
as  a  clam  ;  but  where  he  knows  his  ground  he 
is  as  impregnable  as  a  stone  wall.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  when  he  does  express  an  opinion 
people  listen  to  him." 

From  a  small  town  in  Massachusetts  Morton 
had  come  to  the  metropolis  to  gratify  a  yearn- 
ing, insatiable  ambition  to  make  a  name  for 
himself.  He  was  well  educated  and  well  read, 
and  had  begun  his  career  in  New  York  as  a 
general  writer  for  newspapers.  His  editors, 
who  were  acquainted  with  all  he  wrote  anony- 
mously, as  well  as  over  his  own  name,  agreed 
that  his  work  was  marvellously  clever.  They 
went  so  far  as  to  say  that  he  showed  rare  and 
deep  insight  into  human  nature,  that  now  and 
then  he  rose  to  beautiful  heights  of  poetic 
fancy. 

These  editors  were  less  surprised  than  many 
others  when  a  leading  publisher  announced  a 
novel  by  him,  and  not  a  few  of  his  admirers 

RBO  ' 

NcU 


watched  for  its  appearance  with  sharply  whetted 
curiosity. 

"  Transgression,"  met  with  ahnost  unpre- 
cedented favor  for  a  "  first  book."  Critics 
prophesied  that,  with  time  and  experience,  the 
author  would  acquire  considerable  and  endur- 
ing fame  ;  his  imagery,  his  art,  his  pathos,  his 
dainty  touches  of  humor,  were  divine  gifts. 

Morton  opened  his  eyes  in  a  new  and  charm- 
ing world;  he  suddenly  heard  himself  men- 
tioned far  and  near  as  one  of  the  kindling 
lights  of  American  literature  upon  which  the 
breath  of  public  admiration  was  steadily  blow- 
ing. He  was  sought  by  the  wealthy  and  by 
the  great.  His  peculiarities,  once  deplored, 
were  now  regarded  as  the  royal  offsj)ring  of 
imperial  genius. 

Despite  all  the  furore  he  had  raised,  Morton, 
be  it  said  to  his  credit,  in  his  secret  soul  de- 
spised himself  for  weaknesses  not  dreamed  of 
by  the  public.  He  had  always  harbored  a  be- 
lief, born,  perhaps,  of  his  exalted  ideas  of 
truth  and  art, — and  it  sometimes  amounted  to 
a  fear  that  almost  staggered  him, — that  he 
could  never  become  truly  great  till  he  was 
purer  of  soul  than  he  really  was.     His  chief 


6  i^  i^tttf  (^antt^^at 

faults  were  affectation  and  deceit.  His  mother, 
who  had  died  years  before,  had  often  said 
to  him : 

"  You  have  one  serious  fault,  Edgar,  and  I 
am  afraid  you  will  have  to  struggle  against  it 
all  your  life.  You  are  very  rarely  your  true 
self ;  you  often  employ  deceit  to  gain  a  point 
which  could  more  easily  be  gained  through 
candor  and  honesty." 

Like  many  another  man  of  Napoleonic  aspi- 
rations and  nervous  temperament,  Morton's 
pride  was  often  galled  by  contact  with  obsta- 
cles which,  despite  all  his  cleverness,  he  could 
not  surmount.  Lack  of  sufficient  means  to 
gratify  naturally  extravagant  tastes  was  the 
greatest  barrier  to  his  content.  He  had  ge- 
nius, but  he  had  vanity.  His  fame  and  popu- 
larity drew  him  into  social  circles  where  he 
could  ill  afford  to  stay,  and  an  indomitable 
pride  held  him  there.  His  earnings  were 
meagre  compared  with  the  incomes  of  his 
associates.  Their  money  flowed  as  freely  as 
water,  but  he  was  obliged  to  stint  himself,  and 
to  stifle  many  desires  in  order  to  keep  up  ap- 
pearances. In  the  summer,  when  his  friends 
left  the  city  for  fashionable  resorts  or  to  make 


trips  to  Europe,  Morton  could  not  afford  to 
go  ;  so  he  pretended  to  be  pressed  with  duties, 
and  remained  in  heated  New  York  to  nurse  his 
discontent  and  bewail  his  ill-luck. 

It  was  this  combination  of  circumstances 
that  made  him  first  think  of  bettering  his  con- 
dition by  marriage.  Miss  Jean  Wharton,  the 
orphaned  heiress  of  a  superb  fortune,  whom  he 
had  met  frequently  at  her  uncle's  fashionable 
home  in  West  Fifty-eighth  Street,  began  to 
show  a  strong  liking  for  him.  He  visited  her 
frequently,  and  almost  before  he  realized  the 
fact  they  were  engaged. 

Morton  had  never  felt  even  the  faintest 
thrill  of  real  love  for  Miss  Wharton,  and  there 
were  moments  in  which  his  better  self  did 
stern  battle  with  the  alluring  temptation  to 
wed  her.  At  such  times  he  would  almost  re- 
solve to  break  off  with  the  heiress  and  be  true 
to  himself,  but  the  appearance  of  an  urgent 
bill  collector  and  the  sight  of  his  empty  purse 
usually  made  him  desperate,  and  caused  him 
to  think  with  grim  satisfaction  upon  a  certain 
unannounced  social  event,  and  to  draw  mind- 
pictures  of  an  Eden  where  the  fiend.  Poverty, 
did  not  kill   o-enius  in  the   bud.     He   used  to 


10  %  Put«  ((tmUMot 

soliloquize  over  the  matter  something  like  this  : 
"  Well,  what  if  my  whole  soul  is  not  abso- 
lutely hound  up  in  the  girl  ?  What  if  I  do 
not  dream  about  her,  and  think  her  a  veritable 
paragon  of  human  loveliness  and  virtue  ?  she 
can  help  me  out  of  a  beastly  mire  where  I 
don't  belono".  She  takes  to  me  because  I  am 
a  little  out  of  her  run.  I  can  give  her  all  she 
wants,  and  she  can  supply  me  with  what  I 
must  have,  or  be  a  slave  all  my  days.  I  have 
never  loved  anybody  with  the  raging  confla- 
gration of  the  heart  that  poets  rave  about,  and 
perhaps  I  never  should,  even  if  I  remained 
unmarried  into  frosty  old  bachelorhood." 


tkt  iUxmmt  of  a  ^outlmu  (Tdwu.  11 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  gas  was  shedding  a  mellow  light  through 
the  pink  and  pale-blue  globes  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  a  brown-stone  mansion  in  West  Fifty- 
eighth  Street.  The  furniture,  the  statues  of 
bronze  and  marble,  the  bric-a-brac,  the  paintings, 
the  unique  screens  were  scattered  here  and 
there  with  that  seeming  disorder  which  is  highest 
art.  In  a  luxurious  arm-chair,  upholstered  in 
soft  brown  leather.  Miss  Jean  Wharton  sat  await- 
ing Edgar  Morton.  There  was  a  characteristic 
ring — one  impetuous  jerk  of  the  bell-pull.  A 
faint  flush  struggled  into  the  young  woman's 
cheeks,  and  she  rose  tremulously  to  greet  her 
visitor. 

She  was  far  from  handsome ;  she  could  scarce- 
ly lay  claim  to  one  redeeming  feature.  She 
looked  the  typical  old  maid.  Footprints  of  the 
proverbial  crow  were  visible  in  the  facial  sands 


12  %  Pule  (^0nitmt 

about  her  gray,  lack-lustre  eyes,  where  that 
heartless,  tell-tale  bird  had  been  stalking  about 
for  thirty  years,  taking  zealous  care  that  the 
frequent  tides  of  cosmetics  should  not  obliterate 
his  tracks.  To  Morton's  fastidious  eyes  she 
was  too  tall,  too  scrawny ;  her  hair  lacked  gloss, 
her  eyes  vivacity. 

He  smiled  according  to  habit  when  he  entered, 
and  took  her  outstretched  hand.  With  her 
he  was  less  reserved  than  with  the  rest  of  his 
friends,  else  he  could  not  have  won  her  regard. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  she  said,  when 
he  had  seated  himself  ;  "  you  have  neglected 
me  very  much  of  late." 

"  I  have  been  very  busy,  my  dear,"  said  he, 
hoping  that  she  had  not  noticed  his  name  in 
the  society  papers  as  being  present  at  several 
receptions  he  had  attended  since  he  had  seen 
her.  "  I  have  an  awful  lot  of  work  to  do. 
You  know  that  in  order  to  exist,  a  poor,  money- 
less toiler  like  myself  must  utilize  every  spare 
moment ;  but,  of  course,  you  can't  understand 
— in  your  position." 

She  sighed  and  put  her  costly  lace  handker- 
chief up  to  her  face. 

"But  it  will  not  be  so  always,"  said  she,  her 


^\\t  Romance  of  a  ^outhcvu  timw,  13 

blushes  deepening ;  "  some  time  you  will  allow 
those  who  love  you  to  help  you." 

A  look  of  mingled  shame  and  embarrassment 
flitted  across  the  author's  handsome  visage. 
He  rose,  ostensibly  to  replace  a  photograph 
which  had  fallen  from  a  table,  and  yawned  a 
little  in  secret  as  he  passed  behind  her  chair. 
Her  eyes  followed  his  movements  wistfully,  her 
face  wore  an  expression  of  blended  tenderness 
and  admiration. 

"  A  poor  beggar,  such  as  I  am,  has  no  right 
to  marry  a  wealthy  woman,"  said  he,  standing 
behind  her  and  turning  the  leaves  of  an  album 
on  the  table.  He  had  assumed  a  little  air  and 
tone  of  despondency,  knowing  by  past  experi- 
ence how  such  tricks  roused  her  sympathies. 
He  heartily  despised  himself  for  his  duplicity 
as  he  went  on  :  "  What  will  the  world  say  of 
the  wealthy  Miss  Wharton  throwing  herself 
away  upon  a  humble  bohemian  ?  " 

"  You  promised  you  would  not  talk  that  way 
any  more,"  said  she,  visibly  pained.  "  What 
do  I  care  ?  What  should  you  care  what  idle 
gossips  may  say  ?  No  other  man  but  you 
would  give  such  things  a  thought.  But  I  sup- 
pose it  is  part  of  your  sensitive  nature.     I  admit 


14  ^  Ptttc  (^oMmot, 

that  I  might  have  suspected  the  motives  of  any 
other  suitor,  but  you  are  so  different  from  the 
rest  of  your  sex.  I  feel  honored  that  you — a 
man  of  your  refinement  of  nature  and  tastes, 
should  fancy  poor  me.  I  am  so  insignificant. 
I  was  just  thinking  the  other  day  that  I  should 
be,  oh  !  such  a  poor  companion  for  you.  You 
will  have  to  love  me  a  great  deal  to  overlook 
my  shortcomings.  Tell  me  really  what  you 
first  saw  in  me  to  attract  you.  I  am  not  good- 
looking,  I  am  not  good." 

She  had  made  that  request  of  him  before, 
and  he  had  found  that  it  requu^ed  much  skill 
to  meet  it  gracefully.  He  had  firmly  made  up 
his  mind  to  marry  her,  and  yet  she  was  at  times 
almost  repidsive  to  him,  more  so  in  her  present 
affectionate  mood  than  ever.  He  had  shud- 
dered hundreds  of  times  over  the  thought  that 
she  was  to  be  his  wife. 

He  sighed  audibly,  and  going  to  her  chair, 
bent  over  her  with  well-assumed  feeling  in  his 
mien. 

"  What  did  I  see  in  you  ?  " — his  dreamily- 
spoken  words  seemed  to  exude  from  a  heart 
surcharged  with  love  ;  but  even  then  he  shud- 
dered as  he   looked  down    upon    her    flabby 


2;hc  ^omattce  of  a  ^0ttthevu  ©oivn.  15 

cheek,  upon  which  grew  short,  white  hairs 
magnified  by  the  obhque  rays  of  the  gasHght. 
He  put  his  soft,  tapermg  hand  about  her  neck, 
feeling  a  pecuhar  creeping  sensation  at  the 
roots  of  his  hair.  "  What  did  I  see  in  you  ?  " 
he  repeated,  slowly,  as  if  he  had  seen  so  much 
in  her  that  he  was  at  a  loss  for  words  to  express 
it.     "Why  do  you  ask?" 

He  was  too  artistic  in  all  things  to  attempt 
to  flatter  her  by  itemizing  charms  she  did  not 
possess,  by  praising  her  hair,  her  eyes,  her 
form.  From  his  knowledge  of  her  credulity 
he  knew  that  he  could  please  her  more  in  an- 
other way.  When  he  spoke,  his  eyes  abet- 
ted his  voice  : 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Jean,  I  do  not  com- 
prehend it.  No  mortal  can  comprehend  love  ; 
it  is  as  mysterious  and  as  divine  as  space.  I 
only  know  that  I  felt  drawn  to  you  "  (and 
this  was  truth)  "  as  I  was  never  drawn  to  a 
woman  before." 

Her  face  was  aglow.  He  regretted  that  he 
had  expressed  so  much,  for  it  made  her  roll 
her  eyes  up  towards  him  till  their  sclerotic 
coats  were  unbecomingly  exposed. 

"  I  am  so  happy  to-night !  " 


16  ^  Putt  (HowU^^ox, 

She  caught  his  hand  m  her  thin  fingers  and 
drew  it  down  over  her  shoulder  to  her  Hps. 
Then  she  threw  her  head  back  and  looked  up 
into  his  face.  She  wanted  him  to  kiss  her  ; 
she  thought  he  did  not  do  so  because  he  was 
timid,  because  he  was  contrasting  in  his  mind 
her  wealth  and  his  poverty.  He  read  her 
thoughts,  and  essayed  to  don  the  garment  she 
had  made  for  him,  for  he  did  not  want  to 
comply  with  her  desire. 

"  Why  don't  you  kiss  me  ?  "  she  asked. 
"Edgar,  I  really  believe  you  are  afraid  of  me." 

He  smiled.  A  cool  mist  seemed  to  enshroud 
his  brain,  and  condense  itself  and  trickle  down 
his  spine  as  he  bent  and  kissed  her.  A  mo- 
ment later  he  was  angered  with  himself.  Why 
was  he  such  a  villain  ?  Why  had  Fate  tempt- 
ed him  to  play  such  a  disgusting,  humiliating 
part  ?  He  wanted  her  miUions  because  they 
were  necessary  to  his  cherished  plans  of  future 
greatness,  but  the  price  to  be  paid  for  them 
assumed  horrible  proportions  at  times. 

"  You  wi'ote  me  you  had  something  impor- 
tant to  confide  to  me,"  she  went  on  softly, 
when  he  had  resumed  his  chair. 

She  had  thrust  a  long,  slender  foot  from  be- 


©he  ^omajwt  of  a  ^outhcvn  ©duiw.  17 

neatli  her  skirts.  At  the  sight  of  it  he  felt  a 
thrill  of  repugnance  run  over  him.  He  had 
never  liked  the  shape  of  her  foot ;  he  had  fre- 
quently thought  it  very  inartistic.  The  ball 
was  too  prominent^  the  foot  itself  too  flat,  too 
long. 

"I  am  going  away  for  a  few  weeks,"  was 
his  answer. 

She  started,  and  a  pallor  ran  into  her  face. 

"  Going  away  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  finished  all  the  work  I  have 
here  at  present.  I  have  for  some  time  thought 
I  should  lay  the  scene  of  a  romance  in  the 
South.  To  do  it  I  shall  have  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  among  the  people  there.  I  shall  find 
it  hard  to  be  away  from  you — from  all  my 
friends,  of  course — but  I  feel  that  I  must  go." 

"  You  always  think  of  your  duty,"  she  said, 
gently ;  "I  admire  you  for  it ;  but  I  wish  it 
called  you  here  instead  of  there. 

"  When  do  you  go  ?  "  she  ventured,  after  a 
moment's  silence. 

"  Two  weeks  from  to-day.  And  I  had  almost 
forgotten,  Jean;  you  know  that  about  every- 
thing an  author  does  or  contemplates  doing  is 
made  pubHc.     I  do  not  want  any  one  to  know 


18  gi  Put^  (^awftmt, 

what  I  have  in  view,  nor  where  I  am.  In 
order  to  accomplish  this  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
assume  another  name.  I  want  to  be  thrown 
among  the  Southern  people  to  study  their 
characteristics,  their  customs ;  if  they  knew  me 
to  be  an  author  they  would  be  on  their  guard. 
Mr.  Lang,  of  my  publishing  firm,  is  the  only 
one  besides  yourself  who  will  have  my  secret. 
He  will  attend  to  forwarding  my  mail." 

She  smiled  gratefully. 

"  How  strange  !  "  she  said.  "  I  am  so  glad 
you  confided  in  me.  You  know  no  one  can  get 
it  from  me.  Edgar,  I  feel  very  proud  of  you 
and  your  work.  You  have  heard  me  mention 
the  Saxons,  uncle's  rich  friends.  They  were 
here  to  dinner  last  night.  Somehow  your  name 
came  up  at  the  table,  and  Mrs.  Saxon  said, 
*  Why,  you  don't  say  Edgar  Morton  visits  you  ! ' 
Even  uncle  was  proud  to  tell  her  that  you  came 
here  frequently.  Mrs.  Saxon  ran  on  for  quite 
a  time  in  a  most  enthusiastic  strain  about  what 
she  had  heard  of  you  and  your  literary  work, 
and  after  dinner  she  asked  me  if  I  could  show 
her  your  handwriting.  Of  course,  I  did  not 
want  her  to  read  any  of  your  notes,  so  I  let  her 
see  the  pretty  copy  of  '  Transgression '  in  which 


^\it  ^omaufc  of  a  .^outhnu  (town,  10 

you  wrote  that  beautiful  verse.  You  should 
have  seen  how  much  she  admu-ed  it.  She  said 
that  we  ought  to  feel  honored  to  have  you  for 
a  friend.  Can  you  wonder  that  I  do,  and  that 
I  love  you  and  feel  flattered  by  your  love  ?  " 

He  smiled  indifferently. 

"  She  is  very  kind.  We  writers  have  a  hard 
time,  but  we  are  amply  rewarded  when  we  are 
appreciated.  I  have  accomplished  nothing  so 
far.  I  hope  to  do  something  worth  leaving 
behind  me,  but  I  have  hardly  made  a  begin- 
ning yet." 

"  How  strange  that  you  should  care  for  any- 
thing of  that  kind  !  "  said  she,  venturing  to  lay 
he]'  thin,  bejewelled  hand  upon  his  as  it  rested 
on  the  arm  of  his    chair.     "  I  can't    imao-ine 

o 

myself  feeling  an  interest  in  anything  which  is 
to  be  read  by  people  after  my  death.  I  care 
little  for  any  books  but  yours,  anyway." 

His  pulse  did  not  beat  a  whit  more  quickly 
at  feeling  her  touch.  He  looked  into  her  wizen 
face  critically,  reflectively,  wondering  if,  after 
all,  he  could  afford  to  barter  his  freedom  for 
her  fortune — if  he  could  ever  think  of  her  as 
a  man  should  think  of  his  wife. 

"  You  have  not  told  me,"  she  went  on,  as  he 


20  %  ilute  (^onitmx, 

stood  at  the  door,  ready  to  bid  her  good-night, 
"  what  your  new  name  will  be  during  your 
voluntary  exile." 

"  Mr.  Lang  has  re-christened  me  ;  he  has 
given  me  the  name  of  his  grandfather.  Marshal 
Dudley.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  right  to  use  it, 
since  I  have  his  permission." 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  pretty,  but  not  so  pretty  as " 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  light  kiss  on  her 
forehead,  and  turned  away.  The  cool  air  out- 
side was  refreshing,  and  he  inhaled  it  with  a 
relish. 

"  At  any  rate,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
walked  along  slowly,  "  I  shall  have  to  see  her 
but  once  more  before  I  go,  and  then — £bsi — 
rest,  for  awhile  at  least." 


She  ilomHttW  0^  a  ^tftttki^tt  ^om\,  21 


CHAPTER  III. 

It  was  a  balmy  morning  in  July  when  Edgar 
Morton  arrived  in  Chattanooga,  Tennessee.  He 
had  heard  so  much  of  Lookout  Mountain  that 
he  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  stay  a  few 
days  at  one  of  the  hotels  on  its  summit. 

He  alighted  from  a  sleeping-car  in  the  "  car- 
shed,"  as  the  inhabitants  termed  the  large  union 
passenger  depot  in  the  centre  of  the  city.  As 
he  was  emerging  from  the  station,  satchel  in 
hand,  a  score  of  negroes  met  him. 

"  Ca'ge,  boss  ?  Yer  'tis,  suh  ;  any  part  de 
city  for  twenty-five  cents  !  "  urged  one,  as  he 
snatched  at  the  satchel  eagerly. 

"  Dis  way,  boss !  mine  ride  yer  ez  easy  ez  er 
cradle !  "  pleaded  another,  bowing  servilely, 
whip  and  hat  in  hand. 

"  Palace   Hotel  !      Reed   House  1      Stanton 


22  %  pute  (^mUmt 

Hotel ! "  bawled  half-a-dozen  black  hotel-run- 
ners, as  they  gathered  around  him. 

Morton  was  a  little  bewildered  by  their  eager- 
ness and  their  characteristic  visages,  but  he  did 
not  release  his  satchel. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Mountain,"  he  said. 

He  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  the  crowd  left 
him,  and  ran  pell-mell  after  more  profitable 
passengers. 

"  You  Idn  go  up  de  broad-gauge  track,  ur 
tek  de  incline  plane,  whichever  yer  lak,  suh," 
said  a  colored  bootblack,  politely,  who  was 
rolling  up  a  scrap  of  carpet  and  putting  it  in 
his  blacking-holder.  "  Ef  yer  go  up  de  broad- 
gauge,  yer  kin  tek  de  train  in  dis  shed  in  'bout 
twenty  minutes ;  but  ef  you'd  ruther  go  de 
incline,  all  yer  gotter  do  is  ter  tek  de  'lectric 
cyar  out  deh  in  de  street,  en  fus'  thing  you 
know,  you  at  de  incline." 

"  What  is  the  best  hotel  up  there  ?  "  Edgar 
asked. 

"  De  '  Inn,'  suh  ;  hit  des  built,  en  de  biges* 
house  in  de  Newnited  States,  so  I  year  um  all 
say.  Fum  de  tower  on  de  top  yer  kin  see  inter 
seben  diffunt  States." 

Having    decided    to    take   the    incline    he 


^ht  ^omanri^  of  a  ^^owtkvw  torn*  23 

boarded  a  street  car  and  was  soon  sailing  through 
the  suburbs,  toward  a  great  cone-shaped  mass 
of  earth  and  stone  which  towered  high  into  the 
shimmering,  sun-Kghted  clouds.  Morton  was 
beginning  to  enjoy  his  trip  heartily,  and  was 
better  satisfied  with  himself  than  he  had  been 
for  years.  He  was  fond  of  adventure,  and  its 
spirit  seemed  constantly  hovering  over  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  reached  the  station  of 
the  incline  railway.  The  car  was  open  at  the 
sides  and  at  the  end  facing  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  so  as  to  enable  passengers  to  behold 
the  grand  view  as  they  ascended  into  the  clouds. 

He  looked  up  the  sheer,  rugged  mountain- 
side in  awe.  The  winding  track,  with  its  hum- 
ming cable,  made  its  tortuous  way  among  jut- 
ting bowlders  and  chffs,  and  over  frightful 
chasms,  on  frail-looking  trestles. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  top  ?  "  Edgar  heard  a 
man  ask. 

"It's  almost  a  mile,"  was  the  reply,  "but 
we  make  it  in  less  than  seven  minutes." 

"  All  ready !  "  said  the  conductor,  and  he 
pressed  his  thumb  upon  an  electric  button. 
There  was  a  tinkling  of  a  bell,  and  a  sonorous, 
double-toned    whistle    from    the    engine-house 


24  %  ^ntt  ($0«fe,^,^ov. 

near  by,  and  the  car  began  to  move.  To  Mor- 
ton's eye  the  earth  seemed  to  be  slidmg  from 
beneath  him.  The  car  increased  its  speed. 
Every  passenger  seemed  spellbound.  Morton 
felt  a  cool,  vacant  sensation  in  his  breast.  This 
feeling  gradually  gave  way  to  intense  and  poetic 
enjoyment  as  the  broad  landscape  opened  out 
before  his  sight.  Down,  down  sank  the  earth  ; 
up,  up  went  the  car,  as  if  borne  upon  the  wings 
of  the  balmy  air  into  the  ambient  clouds. 

The  view  constantly  widened  in  all  directions. 
Toward  the  left  lay  the  Tennessee  river,  wind- 
ing like  a  serpent  through  a  landscape  checked 
with  farms  and  forests  and  dotted  with  farm- 
houses. Beyond  the  river  lay  Chattanooga,  in 
mingled  haze  and  smoke,  her  buildings  looking 
as  flat  as  if  they  were  drawn  on  a  map. 

At  length  the  car  stopped  at  a  broad,  flat 
plateau.  From  that  point  the  view  was  sublime, 
and  Morton  sat  down  upon  a  bench,  beneath  a 
blue-and- white  striped  canopy,  to  wait  for  the 
hotel  train  to  start. 

"  All  aboard  !  "  shouted  a  conductor,  and  the 
little  engine  was  soon  tugging  and  steaming 
over  the  rock-bound  track  along  the  brow  of 
the  mountain. 


®he  ^omattre  of  a  ^uuthetw  tom\.  25 

There  was  something  in  the  appearance  of 
the  long  hotel,  with  its  towers,  its  broad,  never- 
ending  balconies,  and  its  luxury  of  space,  that 
charmed  Morton.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock 
when  he  arrived,  and  the  verandas,  the  reading- 
room,  and  the  23arlors  were  thronged  with  guests. 
Some  Avere  promenading,  some  engaged  in  play- 
ing cards,  others  were  reading  and  writing, 
while  an  orchestra  was  playing  in  an  alcove  in 
the  spacious  office. 

"  Marshal  Dudley,  Boston,"  was  the  signature 
Morton  wrote  upon  the  register. 

He  bit  his  lip  to  hide  a  smile  when  the  clerk 
asked:  "Mr.  Dudley,  do  you  Avish  to  goto 
your  room  at  once?  " 

In  less  than  an  hour  Morton  had  refreshed 
himself  with  a  bath,  had  dressed  himself  in  a 
becoming  light-gray  suit,  and  was  rather  impa- 
tient to  be  below  among  the  pleasure-seekers. 
The  strains  of  music  which  faintly  reached  his 
ears  were  enticing.  He  surveyed  himself  in  a 
mirror,  and  as  he  noted  how  perfectly  his  clothes 
fitted  his  statuesque  figure  and  how  much  his  curl- 
ing mustache  became  his  well-carved  features, 
he  was  satisfied  with  his  personal  appearance. 

The  other  guests  evidently  agreed  with  the 


26  %  W^uU  ((!,on(tmt^ 

masquerading  author,  for  wlien  he  was  saunter- 
ing through  the  halls  and  balconies,  enjoying 
a  fragrant  cigar,  many  a  female  glance  rested 
on  him,  and  many  a  bright  eye  in  the  group  of 
ladies  in  the  office  looked  stealthily  over  the 
resfister  to  ascertain  his  name. 

"  Marshal  Dudley ;  what  a  charming  name  !  " 
remarked  Miss  De  Witt,  a  pretty  Georgian 
belle,  to  a  cluster  of  speculating  damsels ;  "  he 
looks  like  an  actor,  or  an  artist." 

"  I  venture  he  is  a  lawyer,"  said  a  pretty 
girl  from  Virginia.  "  Any  one  can  see  that  he 
is  intellectual.  Boston  men  are  usually  so,  you 
know." 

Morton  was  too  close  an  observer  not  to 
notice  that  he  attracted  attention,  but  was  far 
too  sensible  to  appear  conscious  of  it.  He 
bought  a  morning  paper  and  took  a  seat  out  on 
the  balcony,  pretending  to  be  absorbed  in  read- 
ing, while  taking  note  of  everything  around. 
He  was  struck  with  the  gentle,  refined  beauty  of 
the  women,  and  the  polite  bearing  of  the  men. 

Presently,  amid  a  throng  of  promenaders, 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  most  beautiful  girl 
he  had  ever  seen.  She  had  a  pair  of  great,  inde- 
scribable brown  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  golden  hair. 


®k  %ommtt  o(  a  ^outltcttt  ©own.  27 

She  was  tall,  lithe,  and  had  a  perfect  figure. 
She  was  leanmg  on  the  arm  of  an  old  gray- 
headed  man,  and  walked  past  Morton's  chair 
with  the  ease  and  freedom  of  a  young  goddess. 
She  wore  a  gown  of  some  soft,  clinging  stuff, 
of  a  peculiar  shade  of  brown,  slightly  lighter 
than  her  eyes,  with  dainty  bits  of  turquoise- 
blue  peeping  here  and  there.  In  the  cast  of 
her  well-chiselled  face  there  was  a  something 
which  bespoke  remarkable  powers  of  intellect. 
Her  wonderful  eyes,  veiled  with  sweeping  lashes, 
seemed  to  breathe  ideality  ;  her  every  undulant 
motion  to  awake  a  sleeping  charm. 

Edgar's  heart  bounded  ;  a  thrill  ran  through 
his  every  fibre.  The  couple  passed  on.  He 
rose,  tossed  his  cigar  over  the  balustrade,  and 
followed  them. 

"  Papa  dear,"  he  overheard  her  say — and  the 
melody  of  her  voice  thrilled  him  strangely, — 
"  you  are  too  much  troubled.  Throw  it  off  ; 
mamma  is  better  now ;  this  air  will  do  her 
good." 

"  I  should  be  altogether  lost  without  you, 

darling "  sighed  the  parent ;   but  a  sudden 

gust  of  wind  bore  the  rest  of  the  sentence 
away  from  Morton's  ears. 


28  ^  Putf  d'onfc.^'.s'ov. 

As  they  jDaused  at  the  edge  of  the  balcony 
to  look  at  the  scenery,  Edgar  passed  them,  and 
walked  to  the  end  of  the  building,  and  tlien, 
turning  back,  he  found  them  seated  together  on 
a  rustic  bench.  The  girl  held  a  newspaper 
from  which  she  was  reading  aloud  in  a  softly 
modulated  tone.  As  she  leaned  her  elbows  on 
the  old  man's  knees,  and  bent  her  head  over  the 
paper,  there  was,  in  her  softened  posture,  an 
ineffable  something  that  appealed  to  the  au- 
thor's highest  sense  of  the  pure  and  beautiful. 
At  a  glance  he  remarked  the  exquisite  forma- 
tion of  her  white,  tapering  hand  ;  the  pretty, 
brown,  beaded  slijjper  that  peeped  from  a 
cloud  of  white  lace  skirts,  the  Httle  pink  ear 
embedded  in  her  golden,  wind-tossed  tresses. 
As  he  was  passing  she  glanced  up  at  him. 
For  one  instant  he  looked  full  into  her  face, 
and  felt  that  the  burnino;  admiration  of  his 
eyes  had  claimed  her  notice,  for  she  looked 
down  with  faintly  heightened  color. 

Never  before  had  Morton  felt  as  he  did  at 
that  moment.  His  blood  ran  in  hot  streams 
through  his  veins.  The  portals  of  a  new  and 
fascinating  experience  had  opened  to  him.  He 
■walked  round  to  the  other  side   of  the   hotel, 


^hc  i>omanfc  of  a  ^outHcnt  (Toivn;.  29 

trying  in  vain  to  drive  the  girl  and  her  eyes 
from  his  mind.  He  laughed  at  himself,  and 
struggled  a  little  against  the  strange  sensation 
which  had  taken  possession  of  him.  "  What  a 
pure  creature  she  must  be  !  "  he  thought;  how 
different  from  himself !  He  shuddered,  and 
a  strange  discontent  stole  over  him.  He  was 
examining  himself  under  a  microscope  of  self- 
contempt,  as  it  were,  and  it  revealed  his  short- 
comings with  startling  distinctness.  What  an 
angel  was  the  girl  he  had  just  passed ! 

All  at  once  the  presence  of  the  moving 
throng  grated  upon  him.  He  left  the  veranda, 
and  strolled  down  the  side  of  the  mountain. 
Seating  himself  on  a  grass-grown  bowlder,  he 
began  to  map  out  his  literary  plans  for  the 
future.  He  would  write  down  everything  wor- 
thy of  note  ;  nothing  should  escape  him.  He 
would  study  the  habits  and  the  dialect  of  the 
negroes,  and — but  what  had  become  of  his  en- 
thusiasm ?  Why  did  that  Southern  girl's  face 
and  eyes  haunt  hnii  ?  Then  he  gave  up  try- 
ing to  evade  his  thoughts,  and  found  it  deli- 
cious, there  in  the  balmy  air,  to  build  fancies 
about  her,  and  to  recall  her  beauty  and  the 
exquisite  tone  of  her  voice. 


30  '^  Putf  ({l^anUmt, 

In  the  evening  the  music  of  the  orchestrj. 
drew  Morton  to  the  dining-room.  The  tables 
had  been  removed,  and  the  guests,  in  evening 
dress,  were  preparing  to  dance.  Morton's  eye 
swept  restlessly  over  the  assembly,  seeking  the 
subject  of  his  thoughts ;  but  she  was  not  in 
sight. 

Feeling  very  lonely,  he  left  the  room  and 
walked  out  upon  the  now  almost  deserted 
balcony.  Here  and  there  sat  a  couple  enjoy- 
ing the  cool  breeze,  which  kept  the  tops  of  the 
mountain  trees  in  gentle  motion.  The  strains 
of  the  orchestra  and  the  shuffling  of  feet  fol- 
lowed him.  In  one  of  the  large  parlors  some 
one  was  playing  on  a  piano,  and  through  the 
open  windows  he  could  see  a  merry  cluster  of 
little  girls  dancing.  The  katydids  were  sing- 
ing in  the  trees,  and  a  gauzy  ocean  of  shimmer- 
ing clouds  hovered  over  the  valley.  In  his 
purer  moments  of  retrospection,  Morton  had  a 
habit  of  recalling  to  mind  a  little  sister  of  his 
who  had  died  years  before.  She  was  the  com- 
panion of  his  loneliness  now.  She  had  been 
ambitious  for  a  child;  she  used  to  tell  him  that 
some  day  she  would  try  to  make  a  name  for 
herself.     She  had  always  felt  that  she  could 


She  5^vomaufc  of  h  .^outhfvu  uToatt.  31 

succeed  as  an  actress.  She  used  to  recite  to 
him  and  was  satisfied  with  her  efforts  only 
when  he  was  pleased.  He  had  been  her  ideal 
of  perfect  manhood. 

His  eyes  grew  moist ;  a  weight  was  on  his 
breast.  "  Poor  Lilly  !  "  he  sighed.  How  he 
wished  that  she  had  lived  !  She  would  have 
been  happy  indeed  over  the  fame  he  had 
already  acquired,  for  she  had  been  proud  of 
him  when  he  had  accomplished  nothing. 

"  May  I  trouble  you  for  a  match,  sir  ?  " 

He  was  roused  from  his  reverie  with  a  start. 
The  father  of  the  girl  who  had  so  deeply  in- 
terested him  was  at  his  side,  holding  a  cigar  be- 
tween his  fingers.  Morton  gave  him  a  match, 
Hfting  his  hat  as  he  did  so. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  will  you 
smoke  ?  " 

Morton  accepted  the  proffered  cigar,  feeling 
a  strange  delight  surge  over  him  as  the  old 
gentleman  held  out  the  burning  match  to  him. 

"  You,  like  myself,  are  not  dancing  to- 
night," went  on  the  old  man,  as  he  blew  a 
cloud  of  smoke  from  his  lips.  "  I  am  getting 
too  old  for  that  now  ;  besides,  my  wife  is  un- 
well, and  never  comes  down  at  night.     But 


32  ^  pute  (^onftmx. 

you  are  young ;  I  should  think  you  would 
enjoy  it." 

"  I  am  a  stranger,"  said  Morton  ;  "  1  arrived 
only  this  morning." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  returned  the  former,  pleasantly. 
"  Well,  we — that  is  my  daughter  and  myself — 
do  not  know  many  of  the  guests  here.  Stanton 
is  my  name,  sir.  You  will  pardon  my  intro- 
ducing myself,  but  we  of  the  old  school  in  the 
South  do  not  stand  much  on  ceremony.  I  live 
down  at  G ,  a  small  town  in  Georgia." 

So  foreign  was  any  idea  of  deception  to 
Edgar's  present  mood,  that  it  was  on  his  tongue 
to  give  his  real  name  ;  but  he  remembered  him- 
self suddenly. 

"  My  name  is  Dudley — Marshal  Dudley,"  he 
said,  with  slow  awkwardness — "  from  Boston." 

"  I  am  pleased  to  meet  you,  sir,  and  if  I  can 
do  anything  to  make  your  stay  here  agreeable 
I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so." 

In  the  conversation  which  ensued  between 
the  two  men  during  the  next  half -hour,  Morton 
bent  his  every  energy  toward  pleasing  his  new 
acquaintance.  And  he  succeeded  to  an  extent 
that  surprised  himself.  They  talked  of  politics, 
jeligiou^  literature,  art,  and  the  late  war,  com- 


(The  ^{omancc  of  a  ^^outhcnt  <Loa«.  33 

menting  now  and  then  on  the  scenery.  Mr. 
Stanton's  conversation  was  easy  and  intellectual ; 
he  evinced  pleasure  in  speaking  of  matters  of 
local  historic  interest  to  such  a  willing  listener. 

"  Really,  sir,  I  am  delighted  to  have  formed 
your  acquaintance,"  he  was  saying,  when  his 
daughter  emerged  from  a  hallway  and  came 
hastily  to  him. 

"  Why,  papa,  I've  been  looking  for  you 
everywhere  !  "  she  ejaculated,  witli  a  sweet, 
undulant  intonation,  and  breathing  hard,  as  if 
she  had  been  walking  rapidly. 

She  wore  a  gown  cut  low  enough  at  the  neck 
to  expose  her  snoAvy  throat  and  a  drift  of  diaph- 
anous lace  about  her  bosom.  Under  the  blended 
rays  from  the  moon  and  the  gas  overhead  slit 
looked  like  a  breathing,  tinted  statue. 

"  Papa,"  she  went  on,  "  I  am  really  afraid  this 
night  air  will  make  you  sick.  You  ought  not 
to  be  here  without  your  hat;  how  imprudent  !  " 

Mr.  Stanton  turned  to  her  with  a  beaming 
face: 

"  Ah,  it's  you,  daughter  !  So  I  have  been 
disobeying  orders  again ;  well,  I  have  always 
been  a  slave  to  the  caprices  of  Avonien.  But, 
Irene,   I   want   to   introduce   you   to   a   new 


34  %  ^X\xU  a^onit^m, 

acquaintance  of  mine — Mr.  Dudley,  from 
Boston." 

She  looked  into  Morton's  eyes  frankly,  and, 
with  almost  hidden  hesitation,  gave  him  her 
soft,  warm  hand. 

"  I  am  pleased  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  and 
turned  to  her  father. 

"  Papa,  I  came  to  tell  you  that  mamma  wants 
you ;  she  is  still  sitting  up." 

A  faint  shadow  fell  athwart  Mr.  Stanton's 
wrinkled  visage. 

"  Well,  all  right,"  he  said,  pleasantly,  as  he 
turned  to  go ;  "I  will  run  up  to  her ;  you  may 
stay  and  entertain  Mr.  Dudley.  Remember,  he 
is  a  total  stranger,  and  do  not  let  the  South's 
reputation  for  hospitality  suffer  at  your 
hands." 


©he  ^{ornauw  of  a  ^outUevu  ^owu,  35 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Morton  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  delightful 
dream.  He  was  almost  spellbound  by  her 
charm  of  person.  For  once  in  his  life  he  felt 
a  little  awkward.  His  eyes  betrayed  his  mute 
admiration,  and  her  face  flushed  slightly  under 
his  glance. 

"It  is  a  sublime  view  from  here,"  said  she, 
drawing  a  light  shawl  round  her  perfect 
shoulders,  and  looking  out  into  the  moonlight. 
"  I  would  be  content  to  live  here  always." 

"  You  love  nature,  then  ?  " 

"  Very  much." 

"  You  have  a  poetic  soul ;  it  is  natural." 

She  started  at  his  frank  remark,  and  looked 
at  him  in  surprise. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

Her  tone  was  rather  disconcerted,  but  earnest. 
They  were  standing  side  by  side  on  the  edge 
of  the  balcony.     Morton  had  frequently  amused 


36  ^  lUntt  m\U:^^ov. 

himseK  with  a  certain  skilful  trick  of  paying 
deserved  compliments  to  ladies  in  a  most  un- 
conventional manner.  He  smiled,  and  looked 
at  her  steadily. 

"  You  cannot  hide  it.  Pardon  me  if  I  seem 
too  free,  but  an  air  of  poesy  seems  to  pervade 
your  every  movement ;  it  flutters  like  an  impris- 
oned bird  in  your  voice ;  it  beams  like  the  fire 
of  burning  fancies  in  your  eyes." 

"  Oh,  how  absurd  !  " 

A  faint  smile  came  to  life  on  her  lips,  and 
quickly  died.  She  seemed  about  to  take  um- 
brage at  what  he  had  said.  She  looked  at  him 
steadily,  even  haughtily,  for  an  instant,  but  the 
sincerity  in  his  eyes  disarmed  her,  as  he  felt  it 
would. 

"  You  are  jesting,  Mr.  Dudley,"  said  she,  in 
a  low,  quivering  voice ;  and  there  was  a  virginal 
sensitiveness  in  her  helpless  face  that  touched 
him  sharply.  "  Because — because  one  confesses 
to  loving  such  a  night-scene  as  this,  ought  one 
to  be  accused  of  being  poetical,  sentimental?" 

"  No,  not  sentimental,"  he  smiled.  "  But 
you  will  have  to  pardon  me  for  my  frankness ; 
I  have  an  unfortunate  habit  of  reading  people 
by  their  faces,  and  when  I  arrive  at  a  conclu- 


©he  Romance  of  a  ^outUfvu  (^oun.  37 

slon  I  feel  a  certain  right  to  it.  Indeed,  I  cannot 
conscientiously  retract  what  I  said  in  regard 
to  your  poetic  nature.  Look  !  "  They  Avere  walk- 
ing slowly  past  a  door  through  which  the  ball- 
room could  be  seen.  "  Such  a  scene  to  the  aver- 
age woman's  eye,  is  about  the  most  attractive 
one  on  earth.  Note  how  their  eyes  gleam  ; 
see  how  they  smile  ;  Hsten  to  their  laughter, 
their  incessant  chatter ;  watch  them  as  they 
move  in  the  dance.  Their  every  vein  is  throb- 
bing with  pleasurable  emotions.  Hardly  one 
of  them  would  leave  it  for  a  moment  to  enjoy 
the  sublimity  of  this  view.  Pardon  me,  but  I 
think  you  would  find  your  horizon  obscured  in 
such  a  crowd.  You  might  mingle  with  them 
as  a  sort  of  social  duty ;  but  your  better  self 
would  not  be  there  ;  you  love  Infinity  too 
deeply." 

She  laughed,  but  not  naturally. 

"How  do  you  know  so  much?"  she  said, 
visibly  gratified  by  what  she  felt  to  be  truth  ; 
"  you  may  be  quite  wrong." 

"  I  don't  claim  to  be  infallible,"  he  returned, 
in  a  tone  which  he  knew  well  how  to  as- 
sume, but  in  which  now,  almost  to  his  surprise, 
lurked    no    little    true    feeling ;    "  but    really, 


38  %  ^nU  i^owU^m'. 

Miss  Stanton,  I  know  that  your  tastes  are  far 
above  the  average  woman's.  I  noticed  you  to- 
day with  your  father,  and  I  have  been  hoping 
ever  since  that  I  might  meet  you." 

She  gave  him  a  fleeting,  timid  glance,  and 
dropped  her  head.  She  thought  it  strange 
that  he  should  know  her  disposition  so  well. 
She  had  trusted  few  young  men  in  her  life, 
but  as  this  handsome  stranger  regarded  her 
with  his  warm,  admiring  glance,  she  was  begin- 
ning to  think  that  she  could  trust  him  ;  and 
as  they  walked  to  and  fro  she  unconsciously 
leaned  more  confidingly  on  his  arm. 

"I  thank  you;  you  are  very  kind,"  she  said, 
sweetly.  "  Papa  is  very  thoughtful  of  the 
comfort  of  strangers." 

On  reaching  a  side  door  leading  into  the 
baU-room,  they  paused  and  looked  in.  The 
orchestra  was  playing  a  delightful  waltz  ;  the 
floor  was  invitingly  smooth. 

"  I  do  not  dance  very  well,"  said  Morton, 
"  but  I  should  like  very  much  to  waltz  with 
you. 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  preceded  him 
into  the  ball-room.  Under  the  bright  light 
her  attire  was  most  becoming.     She  wore  a 


<t^\t  Romance  of  a  ^authrvit  (Toa'n.  89 

pale-blue  muslin,  with  white  roses  on  her  shoul- 
ders and  at  her  belt.  Morton  felt  her  beauty 
and  supple  grace  take  possession  of  his  senses 
like  the  spell  of  some  strange  enchantment. 
He  was  all  aglow  as  he  placed  his  arm  around 
her  shapely  waist.  From  her  luxuriant  hair 
an  odor  of  fresh  violets  was  wafted,  her  eyes 
were  indescribable  ;  through  her  thin  glove  the 
hand  he  held  felt  delightfully  soft,  and  mag- 
netic. She  danced  perfectly;  their  steps  ac- 
corded well. 

"  You  dance  better  than  any  one  I  know," 
he  said,  in  her  ear,  while  they  were  gliding 
through  the  whirling  crowd. 

She  murmured  her  a23preciation  of  the  com- 
pliment. Her  warm  breath  touched  his  cheek, 
and  he  took  a  firmer  clasp  upon  her  hand. 

After  the  waltz,  he  drew  his  companion' 
back  on  to  the  veranda.  He  was  afraid  that 
some  one  else  would  ask  her  to  dance.  And 
his  fears  were  well-grounded,  for  just  as  they 
were  taking  seats  in  an  almost  deserted  part  of 
the  balcony,  two  young  men  hastened  up. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Stanton,"  exclaimed  the  one  who 
reached  her  first,  "  will  you  not  dance  the 
next  waltz  with  me  ?  " 


40  it  Putc  ef.attfe,$,^(jr. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Jones,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  do  not  wish  to  dance  any  more  to-night, 
I  shall  have  to  go  up  to  my  mother  pretty  soon, 
and  I  am  tired  now." 

"  I  came  to  ask  the  same  favor,  Miss  Stan- 
ton," said  the  other  young  man,  "  but  Mr. 
Jones's  defeat  means  my  downfall." 

After  the  young  men  had  left,  both  Morton 
and  his  companion  were  silent  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. The  music  and  hum  from  the  ball-room 
scarce  reached  their  ears  ;  the  shrill  tones  of 
the  clarionet,  rising  independent  of  the  other 
instruments,  seemed  the  weird  cry  of  some 
wind-tossed  mountain  bird.  Four  negroes, 
waiters  in  the  dining-room,  passed.  One  of 
them  was  thrumming  on  a  guitar  strapped 
across  his  breast.  They  stopped  near  by,  and 
began  to  sing  a  quaint  plantation  song  to 
the  guitar's  responsive  accompaniment.  The 
sinofers  were  to  music  born  ;  their  voices  blended 
together  in  perfect  harmony. 

"  You  can  easily  imagine  how  I  enjoy  their 
singing.  Miss  Stanton,"  said  Morton  ;  "  I  have 
heard  few  colored  people  sing  in  my  life." 

"  I  suppose  you  do,"  she  replied.  "  I  have 
heard  such  melodies  all  my  life,  but  I  never 


tire  of   them.     They   make    up  their   songs ; 
there  is  Httle  rhythm  to  the  words  ;  listen  !  " 

Morton  smiled  as  he  paid  close  attention  to 
the  next  stanza : 

"  No  time  f er  ter  eat,  no  time  f  er  ter  drink, 
Git  erlong,  oh !  git  erlong ! 
Devil  ketch  yer  'fo'  yer  kin  wink, 
Git  erlong,  oh !  git  erlong !  " 

After  singing  several  songs,  the  vocalists 
bow  themselves  away,  hat  in  hand.  From  the 
subject  of  music  the  conversation  turned  upon 
literature,  and  Morton  experienced  an  un- 
pleasant sensation  as  she  began  to  speak  of 
American  authors.  He  felt  that  he  could  meet 
any  emergency  rather  than  have  her  even  inci- 
dentally allude  to  his  efforts.  He  purposely 
changed  the  subject. 

"  Pardon  my  being  personal  again,"  said  he, 
believing  that  what  he  was  about  to  say  would 
please  her,  so  thoroughly  had  he  read  her 
nature,  "  but  I  feel  sure  that  you  write  ;  that 
you  aspire  to;  at  least "  he  hesitated,  floun- 
dering in  the  mire  of  a  very  delicate  situation,  for 
her  eyes  were  fixed  steadily,  almost  resentfully, 
upon  him.     "  Your    criticisms    have    been    so 


42  ^  putc  (»!;onff.^,«iov. 

clear,  so  unique,"  he  went  on.  "Indeed,  1 
have  always  found  the  best  critics  the  most 
competent  judges  of  what  is  best  in  literature 
among  literary  workers." 

She  dropped  her  lashes.  The  warm  blood 
rose  and  struggled  in  her  delicious  face.  She 
did  not  speak  for  a  moment,  then  she  said, 
sighing  lightly  : 

"  I  believe  you  are  a  wizard.  There  is  no 
use  in  my  trying  to  hide  anything  from  you  ; 
you  know  me  already  as  well  as  my  father  does. 
I  should  have  been  offended  if  any  other 
stranger  had  been  so  candid  with  me,  but  it 
seems  as  if  I  had  known  you  a  long  time.  You 
are  right  about  my  aspirations  ;  since  childhood 
I  have  felt  an  unconquerable  desire  to  be- 
come an  authoress.  I  have  never  written  for 
publication,  but  have  composed  and  destroyed 
hundreds  of  thincrs.  There  are  times  when  I 
feel  that  I  simply  have  to  write.  I  have  never 
talked  so  freely  with  a  young  man  before. 
You  are  not  like  those  I  know ;  you  seem  to 
think  and  to  feel  as  I  do  about  most  things. 
My  society  friends  laugh  at  my  ideas,  and 
make  me  disgusted  with  myself,  but  you  seem 
to  understand  me." 


©he  ^omanfc  of  a  ^outhcvn  <Loun.  43 

Morton  almost  feared  tliat  his  face  would 
betray  the  inward  satisfaction  he  felt  over  the 
compliment  she  had  paid  him.  He  saw  himself 
on  the  direct  road  to  her  esteem.  She  liked 
him  because  his  tastes  agreed  with  hers  ;  she 
should  have  no  cause  to  feel  otherwise. 

"  I  have  had  my  dreams,  too,"  he  said,  with 
almost  natural  pensiveness,  so  thoroughly  was 
his  heart  in  the  role  he  was  enactinsf.  "  I 
have  dreamed  of  many  victories,  but  my  dreams 
have  resulted  in  nothino-  so  far." 

She  was  silent,  seemingly  lost  in  reflection, 
her  great,  pensive  eyes  looking  down  the 
mountain's  side  where,  among  the  trees,  lay 
an  army  of  weather-stained  bowlders.  The 
promenaders  were  at  the  other  end  of  the 
veranda  ;  the  music  from  the  ball-room  sounded 
soft  and  low,  mingled  with  the  slurring  of  trip- 
ping feet.  The  dusky  serenaders  had  gone  down 
the  rocky  slope  to  a  cottage,  and  their  melo- 
dious voices  were  wafted  back  on  the  breeze. 
As  low  and  subdued  as  if  the  bell  were  buried 
in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  came  the  strokes 
of  a  clock  in  Chattanooga.  She  counted  them, 
noting  each  metallic,  wind-borne  sigh  by 
touching  the  balustrade  with  her  white  hand. 


44  %  putc  (^rnUmw 

"  Ten  !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  mingled 
surprise  and  regret,  "  I  had  no  idea  it  was 
so  late.  I  have  not  remained  downstairs  so 
long  since  mamma's  illness." 

She  rose  rather  hurriedly,  and  gave  him  her 
hand. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said,  and  turned  away. 

"  Good-night,"  he  echoed  with  regret  in  his 
voice,  and  he  watched  her  till  she  entered  the 
hall  near  by. 

He  was  in  no  humor  to  mingle  with  others, 
so  he  went  up  to  his  room.  On  a  table  lay  his 
tin-encased  typewriter,  which  he  carried  with 
him  wherever  he  went.  It  reminded  him  un- 
pleasantly of  his  working-room  in  New  York. 
It  occurred  to  him  to  uncover  the  machine  to 
see  if  any  of  its  parts  had  been  injured  by  trans- 
portation, but  he  was  not  in  the  humor  then. 
He  felt  very  feverish  and  sat  down  in  an  open 
window.  The  night  view  invited  thought, 
and  he  fell  into  serious  and  discontented  re- 
flection. 

His  better  nature  had  been  sounded  to  deeps 
which  the  plummet  of  conscience  had  not 
touched  for  years.  He  examined  his  callous 
nature  as  if  it  were  some  loathsome  thing  be- 


©he  dPvomance  oi  a  ^^outlvfvu  a^oiin.  ^5 

neatli  a  microscope.  After  all  his  plans,  his 
aspirations,  what  was  he  ?  What  right  had  he 
to  fame  ?  He  thought  of  Jean  Wharton,  and 
became  more  miserable  than  ever.  He  threw 
his  cigar,  just  lighted,  out  of  the  window  and 
watched  its  sparks  shower  through  the  boughs 
of  a  young  oak  as  it  fell  to  earth.  His  thoughts 
kept  him  awake  till  late  in  the  night.  Irene 
was  in  his  mind's  eye,  her  voice  in  his  ear. 
How  happy  she  would  make  some  man — some 
worthy  man  !  He  tried  to  think  of  his  plans, 
but  she  filled  every  nook  and  cranny  of  his 
brain.  At  last  he  dropped  to  sleep  and  in  his 
dreams  he  was  continually  groping  after  some 
vague,  phantom  happiness. 


46  ^  ^uU  <!>unf^j$i6ior. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Morton's  slumbers  were  broken  with  the  first 
appearance  of  day  in  the  eastern  skies.  So 
filled  had  his  dreams  been  with  struggling 
fancies  that  he  felt  languid  from  lack  of  rest. 
Finding  that  he  could  not  go  to  sleep  again,  he 
rose  and  dressed  himself. 

From  his  window  he  saw  the  great  golden  orb 
of  day  rise  from  a  diaphanous  sea  of  clouds 
in  the  valley,  and  climb  towards  the  spotless 
zenith.  He  went  below;  few  guests  were  up. 
There  was  something  soothing  in  the  quiet 
which  hovered  over  the  general  disorder,  like 
the  ghost  of  departed  mirth.  The  servants  were 
replacing  the  chairs  and  tables  in  the  dining- 
room  and  sweeping  off  the  verandas.  The 
night  clerk  in  the  office  was  giving  place  to  his 
freshly-washed,  damp-haired  successor  for  the 
day  and  whistling  a  sleepy  air  as  he  ran  over  a 
memorandum. 

The  parlors  had  a  slovenly  aspect.     A  haiid- 


^\x(  llomancc  of  a  .^outhcnt  (Toun,  47 

kerchief-crowned  black  girl  was  brushing  the 
furniture,  arranging-  dishevelled  music  sheets, 
and  picking  up  playing-cards,  books,  and  fans, 
which  were  strewn  in  wild  disorder  over  tables 
and  carpets. 

Edgar  went  to  the  spot  Avliere  he  had  last 
sat  with  Irene.  He  found  the  two  chairs  just 
as  he  and  Irene  had  left  them.  Under  the  one 
which  she  had  used  lay  a  dainty  cambric  hand- 
kerchief. He  felt  his  heart  throb  as  he  picked  it 
up,  damp  with  dew,  and  scented  with  the  odor  of 
violets.  As  he  spread  the  delicate  thing  upon 
his  knee,  a  tender,  reverential  feeling  stole  over 
him.  Then  he  put  it  carefully  away  in  his 
breast-pocket,  and  began  to  picture  to  himself 
how  its  owner  had  looked  as  she  sat  in  the  chair 
by  him  in  the  moonlight. 

He  remained  there  till  the  o-nests  beo-an  to 
emerge  from  their  rooms  and  walk  about  the 
ground.  An  old  married  couple,  with  heads 
erect  and  nostrils  distended,  were  drinkino-  in 
the  fresh  air  as  they  strolled  down  the  road 
into  the  sun-mellowed  haze,  which  deei^ened 
into  a  fog  beneath  the  trees.  On  the  balcony 
above,  a  nurse  was  rolling  an  infant  in  a  per- 
ambulator, the    wheels  of  which   riunbled   like 


48  §^  Pute  €mitmv. 

distant  thunder.  A  wealthy  blase  young 
devotee  to  society  Avas  enduring  the  unctuous 
flattery  of  the  mother  o£  a  beautiful  but  money- 
less daughter,  as  he  half  sat,  half  recHned  in  a 
hammock,  smoking  a  cigar.  Some  one  began 
to  play  on  a  piano  somewhere  upstau's ;  and  a 
little  girl  passed,  tossing  up  an  apple  and  catch- 
ing it  in  her  hands.  The  click,  click  of  billiard 
balls  was  heard,  mingled  with  the  clatter  and 
crash  of  dishes  from  the  kitchen  and  the  roar 
and  thump  of  a  ten-pin  alley.  Some  one  threw 
a  champagne  bottle  from  a  window  upstairs, 
and  it  gurgled  and  whistled  and  shrieked  till 
it  crashed  upon  a  rock  down  the  slope. 

Mrs.  Stanton  being  worse  than  usual,  her 
daughter  remained  with  her  all  day,  and  it  was 
not  till  the  following  morning  that  Morton 
was  rewarded  by  a  sight  of  Irene.  He  saw  her 
pass  along  the  veranda  and  walk  down  the 
steps  toward  the  wood  below  the  hotel.  He 
felt  his  face  grow  cold,  and  his  heart  almost 
ceased  to  beat.  She  had  not  seen  him.  He 
hesitated  a  moment  as  to  whether  he  might 
follow  her.  Before  he  could  make  up  his  mind 
to  do  so  she  had  vanished  behind  the  long 
building. 


©he  Romance  ot  a  <^owtHem  t^own.  49 

He  descended  the  veranda  steps  hesitatingly  ; 
but  when  he  had  turned  the  corner  she  was  not 
in  sight,  and  the  wood  and  two  diverging  paths 
confronted  him.  One  led  up  to  the  mountain- 
top,  the  other  down  the  sheer  incline.  He 
hastened  along  the  first,  hoping  to  catch  sight 
of  her,  but  was  disappointed. 

He  turned  back,  vexed  with  himself.  He 
knew  then  that  she  had  gone  down  among  the 
great  rocks  to  the  picturesque  cliffs,  and  when 
he  had  returned  to  the  divergence  of  the 
paths,  the  temptation  to  seek  her  by  the  un- 
tried way  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  Pres- 
ently, following  the  steep,  rugged  path,  he 
saw  her.  She  was  sitting  upon  the  extreme 
edge  of  the  highest  cliff  on  the  mountain,  her 
figure  clearly  outlined  against  the  blue  sky. 

She  was  not  aware  of  his  approach  even  when 
he  paused  among  the  stunted  bushes  quite  near 
her.  She  was  bewitchingly  pretty  in  her  re- 
pose of  face  and  form.  She  wore  a  well-fitting, 
tailor-made  gown  of  gray,  and  a  broad-brimmed, 
black  straw  hat,  beneath  which  her  wavy  tresses 
lay  like  molten  gold.  In  her  lap  she  held  a 
portfolio,  and  was  sketching  the  landscape. 
Rapidly  and  gracefully  her   hand  moved  over 


50  §1  Putc  (Jyjjufc^jsor. 

the  wind-fluttered  paper.  Edgar  was  wondering 
how  he  could  best  make  his  presence  known, 
when  his  foot  dislodged  a  stone,  which  rolled 
down  toward  her.  She  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  start ;  a  transient  quiver  of  recognition  dis- 
turbed her  features :  she  colored  a  little,  and  then 
a  slow  smile  dawned  in  her  eyes  and  spread  over 
her  face. 

"  Pardon  my  boldness,"  said  he,  respectfully 
removing  his  hat  and  descending  to  her.  "  I 
saw  you  pass  the  veranda  and  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  follow  you." 

"You  are  quite  welcome,"  she  returned, 
simply,  closing  her  portfoHo,  and  endeavoring 
to  hide  it  at  her  side. 

Despite  his  foibles,  Morton  had  a  good  deal 
of  the  knightly  element  in  his  composition. 
He  certainly  looked  a  model  of  courtly  grace 
and  exceptionally  handsome  as  he  stood,  hat 
in  hand,  the  rays  of  the  sun  playing  on  his 
shining  hair. 

"  The  view  is  sublime  from  here,"  he  said, 
introductively. 

"  Yes,"  she  acquiesced  ;  "  I  have  been  com- 
ing to  this  spot  almost  every  day  since  we 
arrived.     I  almost  worship  it." 


5;Hc  ^omauw  oi  a  <^DUtHfi'tt  ©own.  51 

She  took  note  of  the  seeming  delicacy  of 
feeUng  which  kept  him  from  seating  himself 
near  her,  and  regarded  his  uncovered  head  as 
a  mute  offering  of  respect. 

"  You  were  sketching,"  said  he,  catching  the 
branch  of  a  bush  between  his  fingers  with  a 
nervousness  that  was  novel  to  hiui. 

"  It  could  hardly  be  termed  that,"  said  she, 
with  heightened  color ;  "  but  I  love  this  spot 
so  much  that  I  wanted  to  take  something  home 
with  me,  even  if  it  was  only  a  very  little  like  it." 

"  I  should  be  delighted  to  see  your  work, 
if  you  do  not  mind,"  he  ventured.  "  You 
would  find  me  very  sympathetic." 

There  was  a  struggle  between  inclination  and 
hesitation  in  her  face ;  her  hands  trembled  as 
she  turned  over  the  sheets,  but  she  took  out 
the  sketch  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  Please  do  not  think  I  consider  it  good," 
she  said,  almost  imploringly.  "  I  have  never  had 
a  teacher." 

He  scrutinized  the  sketch  closely,  uncertain 
which  he  admired  most  at  the  moment,  her 
fluttering  timidity  in  regard  to  her  work,  or 
the  work  itself.  Her  watchful  eyes  discerned 
genuine  appreciation  in  his  face. 


52  %  Putc  a^onU^m. 

"  Undeniably,  you  have  talent,"  said  he, 
slowly,  seating  himself  on  a  stone  near  her. 
He  spoke  with  such  evident  sincerity  that  she 
offered  no  protest.  "  You  have  never  had 
a  teacher  ?  "  he  went  on,  looking  at  her  face, 
and  feeling  that  his  eyes  ratified  his  praise. 
"  Your  work  is  wonderful." 

She  was  too  true  and  unconventional  even 
to  assume  a  look  of  doubt  as  to  his  earnestness  ; 
besides,  she  had  always  believed  she  had  unde- 
veloped power.  She  met  his  look  with  eyes 
from  which  her  very  soul  seemed  bubbhng  into 
lambent  light. 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  so  fortunate,"  she 
said,  almost  breathlessly. 

"I  can  see  that,"  said  he,  feeling  that  his 
implied  criticism  would  only  strengthen  her 
confidence  in  him  and  her  appreciation  of  his 
praise.  He  looked  from  the  picture  to  the 
grand  view  of  valleys,  hills,  and  undulating 
land  that  stretched  away  in  the  hazy  air  toward 
the  west.  "  But  you  have  genius,  your  pencil 
is  one  of  those  that  need  little  guidance." 

As  he  took  her  pencil  and  pointed  out  a 
few  places  where  her  work  might  be  improved, 
she  leaned  toward  him.     Her  face  was  near  his 


^ht  ^ommtt  of  a  ^^outhctn  ©own.  53 

shoulder ;  he  could  almost  feel  its  warmth. 
Her  pretty  hands  were  clasped  over  her  knees, 
in  wondering,  childlike  eagerness. 

"  Oh,  I  see,  I  see  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Thank 
you ;  I'm  so  glad  you  showed  me ;  I  never 
could  see  that  before.  I  have  tried  so  hard  to 
make  the  trees  down  there  look  as  if  the  wind 
were  really  blowing  through  their  leaves  !  " 

As  he  artfully  ran  a  pencil  over  the  foHage 
of  one  of  her  trees  she  watched  him  with  a 
glance  of  mingled  gratitude  and  admiration. 
She  took  the  sheet  and  looked  at  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  put  it  into  her  portfolio,  her  face 
losing  a  portion  of  its  impulsive  warmth. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  could  sketch,"  she 
said,  almost  coldly. 

"  Nor  can  I,"  he  said,  quickly,  seeing  her  drift ; 
"I  only  learned  that  little  trick  from  an  artist 
friend  whom  I  used  to  know.  I  could  not  do 
the  work  you  have  done  to  save  my  life." 

Her  susceptible  visage  showed  the  sudden 
departure  of  the  doubt  she  had  half  entertained. 

"  I  want  to  thank  you,"  he  pursued,  "  for  the 
delightful  evening  you  gave  me.  I  missed  you 
sadly  all  day  yesterday." 

"  Mamma  was  ill,"  she  said,  in  a  sweet,  pathetic 


54  §  p«tf  (^ontemt 

tremolo.  And  she  dropped  her  glance  dowil 
among  the  frightful  crags  and  fissures  below. 
"  She  fell  on  the  stairs  a  month  ago  and  struck 
her  head.  There  is  a  sort  of  depression  upon 
the  brain,  the  doctors  say.  At  times  she  is  out 
of  her  right  mind.  The  physicians  advised  us 
to  bring  her  here  ;  they  thought  the  change 
would  benefit  her ;  but  she  is  no  better,  and  so 
we  are  going  home  to-morrow." 

"Home?  To-morrow?"  his  tone  was  so 
earnest  and  regretful  that  she  looked  at  him 
wonderingly. 

"  Yes  ;  we  must  go  in  the  morning ;  mamma 
desires  it  very  much." 

She  seemed  to  appreciate  the  interest  with 
which  he  listened  to  her  as  she  went  on  and 
spoke  with  charming  frankness  of  her  home 
affairs. 

"  We  are  very  poor,"  she  said,  with  a  faint, 
apologetic  smile.  "  We  own  our  home,  how- 
ever, and  some  of  our  old  slaves  are  still  with 
us  ;  but  we  have  a  hard  time  making  ends 
meet.  Our  house  is  much  larger  than  we  need, 
so  some  of  the  young  business  men  of  the  town 
board  with  us.  They  are  not  the  slightest 
trouble,  and  will  submit  to  any  sort  of  bouse- 


^he  3^omattf<J  of  a  .Southern  Zom,  r^^ 

keeping.  My  aunt  is  seeing  to  things  in  our 
absence.  Old  Millie,  our  cook,  is  perfection  ; 
and  Aunt  Del  is  a  most  excellent  servant.  Be- 
sides, there  are  Uncle  Tony  and  half-a-dozen 
little  darkies  of  all  sizes.  But  really  I  must  be 
going ;  the  morning  has  passed  rapidly." 

The  stone  upon  which  she  sat  rested  on  a 
great  rock,  which  sloped  off  sharply  to  the  edoe 
of  the  cHff.  As  she  rose  she  stepped  upon  a 
pencil  that  had  dropped  from  her  lap ;  it 
turned  beneath  her  foot,  and  before  he  could 
render  assistance,  she  had  fallen  and  three 
fourths  of  her  body  had  disappeared  over  the 
precipice.  By  the  merest  chance  her  feet 
caught  up6n  some  projecting  part  of  the  chff's 
face,  and  with  her  hands  pressed  tightly  against 
the  top,  she  held  herself  poised,  her  head  and 
shoulders  only  in  view. 

He  sprang  toward  her  ;  but  as  he  bent  down 
over  her  he  saw  that  he  would  be  powerless  to 
lift  her,  for  he  could  not  possibly  brace  his  feet 
firmly  enough  ujDon  the  sloping  stone.  He  did 
not  even  dare  to  release  her  hands  from  the  rock, 
knowing  that  he  could  not  support  her  weight. 
She  had  not  uttered  a  cry,  but  when  she  saw 
him  bending   over    her,  she  cried    out  firmly  : 


66  %  Pute  (^OMiS^K, 

"  No,  you  cannot  hold  me ;  your  feet  will  slip  ; 
it's  too  steep !  " 

Her  poor,  tortured  face  was  as  pale  as  ashes. 
He  knew  she  was  right,  and  his  heart  stood 
still — his  head  swam  at  the  frightful  depth. 
It  was  hundreds  of  feet  to  the  jagged  stones 
heneath  ;  the  tall  trees  in  the  valley  seemed 
mere  shrubs,  over  which  the  clouds  had  hung 
a  semi-transparent  veil. 

"  Oh,  I  am  falling  !  It's  giving  way  !  "  she 
screamed,  in  terror. 

He  heard  the  crunching  of  crumbling  stone, 
and  saw  her  begin  to  sink.  As  quick  as  lightning 
it  occurred  to  him  that  with  his  body  prone  upon 
the  rock  he  might  hold  her;  so  he  threw  him- 
self down  on  his  side  and  grasped  her  arms 
just  as  her  support  gave  way  and  went  rattling 
down  below.  Her  weight  fell  suddenly  upon 
his  arms,  drawing  him  down  perilously  near  the 
brink. 

To  lessen  the  strain  on  his  arms  he  drew  her 
firmly  against  the  rock.  He  felt  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  him  to  lift  her  into  safety,  owing 
to  the  frailty  of  his  hold.  It  was  the  crucial 
test  of  Morton's  moral  manhood.  All  his  life 
he  had  had  a  superstitio;:3  dread  of  death,  and 


had  sincerely  doubted  that  he  could  ever,  under 
any  cu-cumstances,  have  the  courage  to  sacrifice 
his  own  life  to  save  another's.  He  knew  that 
to  release  her  would  guarantee  his  safety,  and 
believed  that  to  cling  to  her  a  moment  longer 
meant  sure  death  to  both  ;  and  yet  he  held  on, 
feeling  his  soul  swell  with  an  exaltation  he  had 
never  felt  before.  He  felt  the  streno'th  of  ten 
men  in  his  arms.  She  comprehended  the  sit- 
uation, and  said,  very  calmly  : 

"  Release  me,  and  save  yourself  ;  you  cannot 
aid  me ;  you  will  lose  your  own  life  ;  let  me  go." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  he  cried  out,  in  sudden  horror, 
as  she  moved  slightly  from  him. 

She  was  wordless  and  still,  but  gave  him  a 
glance  from  her  big,  soulful  eyes  that  renewed 
his  strength.  He  felt  that  if  he  could  only 
depend  on  his  hold  upon  the  rock  he  might 
draw  her  up  to  him,  but  there  was  scarcely  a 
chance  in  his  favor.  He  listened  for  a  moment, 
hoping  to  hear  the  sound  of  approaching  help, 
but  everything  was  as  quiet  as  the  grave. 

"  Be  perfectly  still!"  he  cautioned,  fii'mlv. 
"  If  you  stir  we  shall  both  be  lost ;  I  shall  never 
let  you  go." 

She  closed  her  eyes  to  keep  from  seeing  the 


5^  §1  Putc  (^antmot 

purple  agony  of  his  face  as  he  began  to  draw 
her  closer  to  him.  In  his  almost  superhuman 
eifort  he  pressed  his  shoulder  so  firmly  against 
the  rock  that  his  legs  were  drawn  down  till 
they  lay  parallel  Avith  the  sharp  verge  of  the 
precipice.  His  hold  was  true.  He  succeeded 
in  drawing  her  breast  over  upon  his  as  he 
slowly  turned  upon  his  back.  Then,  holding 
her  to  him  with  his  left  arm,  he  cautiously 
clutched  the  skirt  of  her  gown  mth  his  right 
hand  and  gradually  drew  her  upon  him.  But 
just  as  her  whole  limp  form  settled  in  its 
full  length  upon  his,  they  slowly  slid,  powerless 
to  stop  themselves,  down  till  the  very  edge  of 
the  cliff  touched  the  middle  of  his  back,  and 
there  they  miraculously  paused. 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  stir  ! "  he  whispered 
under  his  breath. 

Her  face  almost  touched  his ;  her  hair  fell  in 
a  shimmering  mass  round  his  neck.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  held  himself  in  that  frightful 
poise  only  through  sheer  tension  of  his  muscles 
and  by  dominating  his  body  to  his  will.  She 
was  holding  her  breath,  and  had  fully  compre- 
hended their  peril.  Her  eyes  were  on  his ;  she 
was  in  his  tight  embrace.     A  moment,  which 


^U  %o\mmt  of  a  <f owthfvn  ©own.  59 

seemed  an  hour,  passed.  Then,  in  the  very 
yawning  mouth  of  eternity,  her  sensitive,  virgi- 
nal nature  began  to  cast  blood-filtered  shadows 
upon  her  face.  She  tried  to  avoid  his  eyes, 
and  yet  feared  to  move  so  much  as  an  eyeHd. 
He  witnessed  her  mental  struggle,  and  a  warm 
thrill  of  poetic  admiration  went  through  his 
frame.  Then  he  saw  her  visage  begin  to  raise 
the  ashy  flag  of  defeat ;  her  eyes  were  droop- 
ing, her  Hps  drawn.  She  was  fainting,  not 
through  fear  of  death,  but  on  account  of  a 
situation  more  horrible  to  her  mind. 

"  For  God's  sake,  do  not  famt !  "  he  pleaded 
without  a  motion  of  his  breast."  We  are  lost  if 
you  do.     I  could  not  hold  your  dead  weight !  " 

She  rallied;  her  face  hardened  under  its  robe 
of  white.  He  read  her  determination  that  he 
should  not  lose  his  life  through  weakness  of 
hers. 

"It  would  be  useless  to  remain  longer  as 
we  are,"  he  said,  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  that 
she  understood.  "  Can't  you  get  a  little  hold 
upon  an  unevenness  in  the  rocks?" 

She  glanced  aside  very  cautiously,  and  then 
said,  under  her  breath  : 

"  There  is  a  little  place,  but  I  am  afraid  to 


60  %  itMte  ii!,mUmv, 

risk  it.  I  could  not  reach  it  and  hold  you  ;  you 
would  fall." 

"Do  not  mind  me,"  he  said;  "save  your- 
self." 

She  did  not  look  in  the  direction  of  the  place 
again,  but  gazed  into  his  eyes  an  instant 
and  then  closed  her  own.  He  saw  that  she 
was  praying.  He  felt  himself  growing  weaker. 
In  a  few  seconds  all  would  be  over.  Edg-ar 
Morton  had  never  faced  death  before,  but  he 
met  it  now  without  a  fear.  His  sole  aim  was 
to  save  the  woman  in  his  arms.  He  thought 
of  throwing  her  on  the  rock  above  him,  but 
instantly  saw  that  even  that  was  impracticable, 
for  he  had  not  sufficient  strenofth  left.  Then 
the  hope  flashed  through  his  brain  that  he 
might  get  a  slight  hold  upon  the  face  of  the  cliff 
beneath  him  if  he  could  safely  lower  his  hand. 
He  reflected  an  instant,  then  whispered  to  her 
to  lean  slowly  toward  the  mountain  as  he  put 
out  his  arm  in  the  opposite  direction.  She 
obeyed  so  gradually,  and  his  hand  moved  so 
cautiously,  that  his  body  did  not  stir.  Then 
he  felt  the  rough  cliff's  face  under  his  fingers, 
and  his  heart  bounded  as  his  thumb  went  into 
a  small,  firm  fissure. 


(The  l^omance  of  a  ^^outlmn  ou'tt.  61 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  panted,  "  I  can  hold 
now ;  but  get  up  cautiously." 

She  crawled  slowly  from  him,  but  held  on 
to  his  clothing  as  anxiously  as  if  she  were  act- 
ing for  her  soul,  and  he  Avere  her  physical  self. 
The  mute  action  filled  him  with  a  strange  Ian- 

o 

guorous  delight.  Slowly  he  wormed  himself, 
aided  by  her  hands,  back  upon  the  rock,  and 
crawled  after  her  up  to  the  little  plateau  above. 
He  sat  up  and  laughed,  without  making  a 
sound ;  his  face  was  almost  luminously  pale ; 
the  mountain  seemed  to  him  to  be  bowing  to 
the  sun.  She  saw  that  he  was  fainting,  and 
caught  him  in  her  arms.  As  consciousness 
left  him  he  knew  only  that  his  head  was  in  her 
lap,  that  her  hands  were  on  his  face.  Their 
icy  touch  revived  him.  He  looked  Hke  a  dead 
person  in  whose  eyes  the  glimmer  of  a  soul  still 
lingers.  Then  he  remembered  himself,  and  sat 
up.  Both  were  speechless  ;  she  held  his  hand, 
rubbing  it  mutely,  almost  hysterically. 

"  We  had  a  narrow  escape,"  said  he,  finding 
voice  at  last,  and  smiling  to  mask  his  weakness. 

"  You  saved  my  life " 

She  broke  down,  and  raised  her  hands  to 
her  white  face.     They  were  bleeding  from  sev- 


62  g^  Putc  (Eontt^^m^ 

eral  scratches.  He  had  a  sudden  desire  to 
press  them  to  his  lips  and  kiss  away  the  blood, 
but  had  she  been  a  queen,  and  he  her  vilest 
subject,  he  could  not  have  felt  less  worthy. 

"  You  saved  mine,"  he  panted.  "  If  you 
had  moved  when  I  asked  you  not  to  I  should 
have  been  lost.  I  understood  your  sacrifice, 
and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  did." 

Her  face  waxed  red  in  spots ;  a  sort  of  tear- 
haze  came  into  her  eyes.  She  rose  slowly  and 
looked  down  at  him.  Had  she  mutely  held 
out  her  arms  she  could  not  have  shown 
him  better  what  he  had  become  to  her.  He 
got  up  and  stood  swaying  beside  her,  as  lan- 
guorously blissful  as  if  he  were  dreaming  of 
dying  before  the  open  gates  of  heaven. 

"  I  can  never  express  a  thousandth  part  of 
my  gratitude,"  she  murmured,  slowly  turning 
toward  the  homeward  path. 

"  We  will  say  no  more  about  it,"  he  said. 
"  I  did  nothing ;  I  could  not  have  seen  you  fall 
down  there  if  I  had  tried.  Really  it  was  not 
I  who  did  it ;  it  was  something  in  me  better 
than  I  have  ever  been." 

She  did  not  reply.  He  gallantly  extended 
his  faltering  hand  to  assist  her  up  the  j)ath, 


She  Romance  tat  a  ^outUcvu  mm\.  63 

which  was  very  steep  for  a  few  yards  ;  but  she 
refused  it,  and  without  a  word  of  explanation, 
caught  his  arm  and  with  ahnost  mascuHne 
strength  helped  him  up  the  incline. 

They  had  almost  reached  the  hotel,  when  he 
suddenly  stopped,  as  if  confronted  by  an  un- 
pleasant thought,  and  stared  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  go  away  in  the  morning  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

His  breast  was  wrung  with  pain,  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  an  inward  fire  illumined  his  face. 

"I   could  go    to   G ,"  he   said;    "why 

not?  I  came  to  see  the  country,  and — and  if 
your  father  takes  boarders,  I  might  even  go  to 
your  house.  I  should  like  it  very  much — that 
is,  if  you  do  not  mind." 

All  the  mingled  tenderness,  joy  and  grati- 
tude of  which  her  nature  was  capable  seemed 
to  ignite  and  burn  in  her  eyes  and  face.  She 
tried  to  express  her  gladness,  but  her  voice 
was  still  as  air  in  the  bubble  of  a  crystal. 
She  simply  put  out  her  quivering  hand  till 
it  touched  his.  He  understood,  and  went  on, 
with  the  happy  enthusiasm  of  a  schoolboy : 

"Well,  I  shall  follow  you  day  after  to- 
morrowj  if — if- " 


64  i^  Pttte  (ftawfmot. 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  almost  fearfully. 

"  If  I  can  wait  that  long." 

He  parted  from  her  at  a  side  door  of  the 
hotel,  and  went  up  to  his  room  to  lie  down  to 
rest  and  to — think. 


ti>h  $omnu  of  a  jlowtltfvtt  %0m,         65 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  home  of  the  Stantons,  in  the  suburbs  of 
a  small  southern  town,  was  a  grand  old  place. 
The  air  of  antiquity  pervading  it  captured 
Morton's  fancy. 

It  was  a  square,  two-storied  brick  building 
with  a  long  white  veranda  in  front  and  a  shorter 
one  on  the  back,  connected  by  a  wide  hall 
through  the  building.  It  stood  some  distance 
from  the  street,  upon  an  extensive  lawn,  shaded 
by  numerous  oaks,  china  trees,  magnolias  and 
cedars,  and  interspersed  with  poorly-kept  par- 
terres filled  with  flowers  and  weeds.  Here  and 
there,  embrowned  and  gnawed  by  time,  was  a 
dank,  vine-covered  summer-house,  whose  moss- 
laden  roof  threatened  to  crush  its  frail  trellised 
walls  to  earth.  At  the  side  of  the  house  stood 
three  or  four  old  frame  cottages  occupied  by 
negroes. 

There  was  a  home  like  look  about  the  place 
that  inspired  Morton  with  a  new  sense  of  restful- 


66  %  ^\nU  a^mtt^m'^ 

ness.  His  young  career  had  been  such  an  active 
one,  and  yet  so  solitary,  that  the  prospect  of  stay- 
ing a  while  in  such  retirement,  and  of  growing 
more  intimate  with  such  people  as  the  Stantons, 
was  most  inviting. 

Mr.  Stanton  drove  to  the  station,  and  took 
him  home  in  his  old-fashioned  buggy.  In 
response  to  a  delicate  query,  Morton  was  in- 
formed that  Mrs.  Stanton  was  much  better, 
thouo-h  still  confined  to  her  room. 

o 

As  they  neared  the  house,  Edgar's  heart 
bounded  at  the  sight  of  Irene's  trim  figure 
among  the  vines  on  the  veranda.  He  was  one 
of  those  students  of  human  emotions  by  whom 
few  expressive  faces  pass  unread,  whose  ears 
interpret  almost  every  tone  of  voice.  As  he 
drew  near,  her  eyes  fell  for  an  instant  and  a 
bright  glow  came  into  her  face,  then  she  looked 
up  and  came  toward  him,  smiling.  In  her 
softened  bearing  and  timidity,  as  she  gave  him 
her  hand  and  spoke  a  few  simple  words  of  wel- 
come, there  was  an  indescribable  something  that 
sank  into  his  heart. 

She  excused  herself  and  withdrew  when  a 
servant  came  to  direct  him  upstairs  to  the  room 
allotted  to  his  use.     De:i. ending  later  he  found 


iBhe  ^ommtc  of  a  <^outhettt  ^own,  67 

Mr.  Stanton  on  the  veranda,  talking  to  Mrs. 
Livingston,  his  widowed  sister.  Edgar  was 
introduced  to  her  and  to  the  three  young 
men  boarders  as  they  came  in  from  their  work 
for  the  evening  meal.  The  tea-beU  rang,  and 
as  they  were  all  walking  out  to  the  dining-room, 
Irene  joined  him  in  the  wide,  lamp-lighted  hall. 

"  I  was  not  sure  you  would  come  so  soon," 
she  said,  as  they  fell  back  a  little  behind  the 
others,  "  and  now  that  you  are  here  I  am  afraid 
you  will  be  somewhat  disappointed  with  this 
quiet  place  after  leaving  such  a  gay  resort  as 
Lookout  Mountain." 

"  Oh,  but  this  old  town  is  very  interesting," 
he  replied.     "  I  find  so  much  to  charm  one  ;  I 
am  really  tempted  not  to  extend  my  journey* 
further  South." 

"  Papa,  did  you  hear  that  ?  "  she  asked  her 
parent  across  the  table,  after  Morton,  obeying 
Mrs.  Livingston's  invitation,  had  taken  a  seat 
beside  Irene.  "  Mr.  Dudley  is  already  so  favor- 
ably impressed   with  G that  he  is  tempted 

to  go  no  further  South.  Indeed,  you  must 
have  been  quite  entertaining  in  your  drive  from 
the  depot." 

Morton  winced  at  the  sound  of  his  assimied 


68  %  W^nU  (ff^anitmt 

name.  He  decided  that  lie  would  take  the  first 
opportunity  to  confess  his  disguise  to  her  and 
her  father  ;  he  had  not  been  satisfied  with  his 
role  since  his  talk  with  Irene  on  the  cliff. 

"  I  am  glad,"  Mr.  Stanton  returned.  "  I  can 
well  understand  the  charm  that  such  a  place 
would  have  for  a  Bostonian." 

Then  Mr.  Brown,  a  raw-boned,  side-whiskered 
young  man  with  eyes  of  a  sort  of  blue,  like  the 
color  of  whey,  and  who  was  a  clerk  in  a  dry- 
goods  store,  ventured  to  remark,  looking  across 
at  the  new-comer  with  interest, 

"  You  are  from  Boston,  sir  ?  I'm  Southern 
'  to  the  backbone,'  as  the  expression  goes,  and 
I  acknowledge  I  ain't  too  fond  of  the  North 
and  her  people,  considering  what  she  has 
brought  us  to ;  but  I  have  met  some  very  nice 
men  from  Boston.  Boston  is  a  sort  of  an  oasis 
in  the  desert  of  that  country,  anyway,  so  I  have 
heard." 

Everybody  laughed  at  Mr.  Brown's  wit  ex- 
cept Irene.  Morton  fancied  he  saw  a  shadow 
of  disapproval  flit  across  her  face. 

'''  Mr.  Brown  is  the  manager  of  our  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association,"  she  explained, 
sweetly. 


She  ^ommtt  ot  a  ^outhcvn  ®0WJtt.  (;iO 

"  We  would  be  glad  to  have  you  come  round 
to  our  quarters,  Mr.  Dudley,"  put  in  Brown, 
cordially.  "  We  have  a  Kttle  reading-room, 
and  a  number  of  papers  on  file.  You  must 
consider  yourself  welcome  at  any  time.  Are 
you  a  member  of  the  Association  in  Bos- 
ton?" 

Morton  regretted  to  say  that  he  had  never 
joined ;  that  he  had  always  had  so  many  other 
duties  to  perform  ;  that, — indeed,  it  was  not 
exactly  in  his  way. 

Brown's  milk-and-curd  eyes  rolled  ominously. 
He  looked  at  the  two  young  men  at  his  side  as 
if  to  inquire  if  they  had  heard  the  remarkable 
confession,  and  then  stared  fixedly  at  his  plate. 
He  had  nothing  more  to  say,  and  he  felt  that 
his  silence  and  his  whiskers  were  very  impres- 
sive. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brown  is  so  funny  !  "  laughed 
Irene,  as  she  and  Morton  walked  into  the  spa- 
cious, old-time  parlor,  after  the  young  men  had 
gone  back  to  business.  "  You  will  overlook 
all  his  peculiarities  when  you  know  him ;  he  is 
such  an  interesting,  comical  study.  There  was 
never  another  like  him." 

Morton  was  charmed  with  the  room.     The 


70  ^  ^\iU  (^ontmoK. 

fireplace  was  wide,  high,  and  deep,  the  mantel 
heavy  and  old-styled.  There  was  an  old-fash- 
ioned piano  with  age-yellowed  keys  and  sloping, 
octagonal  legs.  Against  a  wall  stood  a  tall  book- 
case, at  each  side  of  which  hung  some  weather- 
cracked  portraits  of  men  and  women  of  the 
ancien  y^egiine.  A  round  table  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  was  noticeable  for  its  massive 
antiquity  ;  the  lace  curtains  which  hung  from 
gilt  cornices  were  very  heavy  and  dingy  with 
age. 

It  being  warm  indoors,  Irene  led  him  through 
an  open  window  on  to  the  front  veranda,  where 
stood  some  chairs  and  rustic  benches.  From 
one  of  the  tall,  white  columns,  to  a  ring  in  the 
facing  of  a  window,  a  hammock  was  suspended. 
She  gracefully  seated  herself  in  it,  her  hands 
stretching  out  to  its  ropes,  and  her  pretty  feet 
just  tipping  the  floor.  The  gloaming  was 
brightening  into  poetic  moonlight ;  the  crickets 
in  the  grass  and  trees  were  shrillino-.  A  church 
bell,  swinging  in  a  wooden  tower  near  a  little 
brick  church,  beyond  a  patch  of  tasselled  corn, 
was  ringing  for  prayer-meeting.  In  the  heart 
of  the  town  an  amateur  cornetist  was  sputtering 
out  a  doleful  air ;  a  deep-voiced  negro  was  sing- 


®he  ^omantc  at  a  Southern  ^oirn.  71 

iiig  behind  the  kitchen  ;  some  one  in  the  woods 
in  the  rear  of  the  house  was  caUing  hogs  in 
mellow,  bovine  tones :  "  Pigoop,  pigoo !  pigoop, 
pigoo  !  "  and  the  dull  whack  of  a  wood-cutter's 
axe  fell  into  the  general  dissonance.  Flowers 
in  crude  boxes,  broken  fruit-jars,  and  cracked 
basins  stood  on  the  whidow-sills  ;  and  the  per- 
fume of  f  uschias,  geraniums,  and  clematis  filled 
the  air.  Myriads  of  flashing  lightning-bugs 
bespangled  the  deeper  darkness  beneath  the 
trees  and  arbors. 

Morton  seated  himself  in  a  chair  near  the 
hammock.  Since  entering  upon  his  literary 
career  he  had  enjoyed  hardly  a  moment's  rest 
from  thinking  over  his  work;  but  he  recked 
Httle  of  it  now.  There  was  no  room  in  his 
heart  or  brain  for  anything  aside  from  the  girl 
before  him. 

Both  were  silent  for  a  few  moments.  He  put 
out  his  hand  to  the  hammock  and  began  to  pro- 
pel it  gently  to  and  fro,  experiencing  a  delicate, 
thrilling  sense  of  enjoyment  whenever  he  drew 
her  toward  him. 

Her  voice  first  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  have  been  wondering  what  profession  you 
belong  to,  Mr.  Dudley,'  she  said,  timidly.     "  I 


12  ^  Putf  Confc^'isav. 

know  I  have  no  right  to  ask,  but  you  are  so 
artistic  in  your  tastes,  so  unUke  ordinary  men, 
that " 

She  paused.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  con- 
fess all  to  her ;  and  yet  it  seemed  so  difficult, 
while  her  pure  eyes  were  looking  so  confidingly 
into  his,  to  acknowledge  the  part  he  had  played. 
He  evaded  the  question ;  he  could  not  answer 
then,  but  he  resolved  to  do  so  very  soon. 

"  I  am  really  nothing  worth  speaking  of,"  he 
said ;  "  you  compHment  me  most  highly.  Of 
course,  I  can't  deny  that  I  am  ambitious.  I 
have  known  and  sympathized  with  many  suc- 
cessful literary  people  ;  some  of  them  have  even 
told  me  that  I  encouraged  them.  It  has  given 
me  no  little  pleasure  to  hope  that  I  may,  per- 
haps, be  able  to  advise  you.  You  have  too 
much  talent  to  allow  it  to  go  uncared  for." 

She  looked  at  him  with  steady  eyes.  She  put 
her  foot  firmly  on  the  floor,  and  the  hammock 
came  to  a  standstill. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do  ?  "  she 
asked,  softly. 

Her  face  was  not  far  from  his.  The  wither- 
ing roses  at  her  white  neck  trembled  so  that 
some  of  their  leaves  fell  into  her  lap.     He  had 


never  seen  such  a  perfect,  poetic  face ;  the 
suppressed  power  of  her  intellectual  longings 
stamped  it  with  the  highest  imprint  of  human 
beauty. 

"  You  ought  to  write,"  said  he,  with  secret 
pride  in  the  sincerity  of  his  words.  "  On  the 
evening  I  first  met  you,  you  told  me  that  you 
had  been  doing  so  for  years  for  your  own 
amusement.  It  has  been  my  fortune,"  he 
continued,  carefully  weighing  his  words  lest 
he  should  betray  himself,  "  to  associate 
intimately  with  editors  and  pubhshers.  I  was 
once  employed  as  a  reader  of  manuscripts  for 
a  leading  magazine  and  publishing  house.  I 
don't  know  why  they  valued  my  opinion,  but 
I  confess  they  did.  In  that  position  I  read  the 
first  productions  of  many  new  writers,  some  of 
whom  are  now  famous.  I  have  already  seen 
so  much  in  you  that  I  should  like  to  examine 
your  work.  I  should  like  to  aid  you — at  least 
to  encourage  you  to  persevere." 

Had  he  cudgelled  his  brain  for  months  he 
could  have  said  nothing  which  would  have 
raised  him  higher  in  her  estimation.  The  poor 
girl  had  felt  such  longings  to  be  heard  by 
the  AYorld  that  she  reverenced  the  very  thread 


74  %  P«te  (HonU^m, 

which  held  a  magazine  or  a  book  togetlier.  As 
a  child  she  had  written  Httle  stories  on  tiny 
sheets  of  paper,  which  she  had  bound  into 
books  and  prized  more  than  any  of  her  play- 
things. She  had  felt  a  strange  sort  of  awe 
when  in  the  j)resence  of  the  only  editor  in  the 
town,  and  she  used  to  spell  out  the  long  words 
in  his  paper,  and  wonder  if  he  had  written  all 
the  stories  and  poems,  which  had  really  been 
copied,  and  why  everybody  did  not  respect  him 
more  than  the  ministers,  the  doctors,  and  the 
lawyers.  Morton's  confession,  however,  threw 
a  damper  on  her  spirits.  For  the  first  time 
since  she  had  met  him  she  felt  uncomfortable  in 
his  presence.  What  would  he,  who  had  criti- 
cized the  work  of  professional  writers,  think  of 
her  frankness  in  regard  to  her  own  aspirations  ? 
He  had  doubtless  met  and  turned  away  hun- 
dreds who  were  perhaps  just  as  hopeful  and 
deserving  as  herself.  It  was  true  he  had  spoken 
encouragingly  to  her,  but  that  was  because  he 
knew  her,  and  wished  to  make  himself  agree- 
able. For  an  instant  she  was  almost  angry. 
She  pushed  her  feet  against  the  floor,  and  the 
hammock  swung  back  a  few  inches,  causing  his 
hand  to  release   its  hold.     Her  face  colored, 


«:he  Romance  ot  a  <^outUcv»  eoutt.  75 

but  he  did  not  notice  it  in  the  semi-darkness. 

"  Why  are  you  so  silent  ?  "  he  asked,  won- 
dering why  she  did  not  reply,  and  why  she  was 
looking-  at  him  so  steadily. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  did  not  tell  me,"  she 
faltered ;  and  he  heard  her  catch  her  breath. 
"  I  ought  to  have  known  that  you  were  like 
that.  I  should  not  have  talked  so  much  about 
myself.     I  hope  you  will  not  think " 

She  broke  down,  her  bosom  rising  and  fall- 
ing excitedly.  He  felt  a  sympathy  for  her  that 
he  had  never  experienced  before.  He  put  out 
his  hand  to  the  hammock,  and  drew  her  nearer 
to  him.  He  was  prevented  from  replying  by 
the  sudden  appearance  of  a  servant,  who  in- 
formed Irene  that  her  mother  wished  to  see  her. 
She  rose  quickly,  so  quickly  indeed  that  the 
hammock  swung  from  her  before  she  had  firmly 
placed  her  feet,  and  she  fell  into  his  arms, 
which  he  threw  out  to  catch  her.  For  one 
instant  she  rested  against  his  breast,  and  it 
required  all  his  strength  of  will  to  keep  from 
folding  his  arms  about  her.  She  drew  herself 
from  him,  blushing  deeply. 

"  I    am     so    awkward,"     she     stammered. 
"  Please  forgive  me." 


76  i^  ^xitt  (towimow 

He  tried  to  detain  her  for  a  moment,  but  in 
vain. 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  door,  and  saw 
her  disappear  in  the  darkness  of  the  long  hall, 
leaving  him  to  the  dreary  companionship  of 
the  chairs,  the  hammock,  and  the  empty  moon- 
light. 


©Iw  ^omanff  of  a  ^outUcvu  ^mn.  77 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Irene  slowly  ascended  the  stairs.  She  was 
very  thoughtful.  Her  heart  was  heavy.  She 
paused  on  the  stairs  for  a  moment  to  get 
composed  before  going  into  her  mother's  pres- 
ence. 

There,  in  the  dark,  with  one  hand  pressed  on 
her  heart,  the  other  against  the  wall,  she  told 
herself  that  she  had  been  very  foolish.  He 
had  been  in  her  thoughts  almost  constantly 
since  he  had  acted  so  nobly  on  the  chff.  She 
had  even  fancied  she  had  read  a  deep  regard 
for  her  in  his  eyes,  in  his  tone,  that  day  after 
the  accident ;  but  she  now  saw  her  error.  He 
would  have  done  the  same  for  any  other  girl — 
for  was  he  not  the  very  embodiment  of  per- 
fect manhood  ?  His  manner  and  tone  had 
been  due  to  excitement  after  that  terrible  or- 
deal.     He  had  decided  to  visit  G in   his 

travels,  and  she,  poor  simpleton !  had   fancied 


78  ii  Pttt^  (itmtt^^ov, 

that  slie  had  been  instrumental  in  drawing 
him  thither. 

Mrs.  Stanton  was  sitting  at  a  table,  reading, 
when  her  daughter  entered.  She  turned  her 
gray  head,  and  looked  at  the  flushed  face 
anxiously. 

"  Mamma  dear,  how  do  you  feel  now  ?  '* 
Irene  asked,  bending  over  the  back  of  the  in- 
valid's chair,  and  brushing  the  white,  rippHng 
tresses  away  from  the  wrinkled  brow. 

"  I  feel  better,  darling,"  was  the  low  reply  ; 
"  my  head  has  not  troubled  me  all  day.  I 
ought  not  to  have  sent  for  you.  I  had  mis- 
laid my  glasses  and  thought  you  had  put  them 
away,  but  I  found  them  just  now." 

"  But,  mamma,  you  must  not  read  so  much  ; 
you  know  the  doctor  has  forbidden  it." 

The  mother  laid  the  open  book  on  her  knee, 
and  stroked  her  daughter's  hand  caressingly. 

"  What  should  I  do  without  you,  my  pet  ?  " 
she  asked,  tenderly.  "  You  are  worth  more  to 
me  than  all  the  doctors  in  the  world.  But  I 
shall  not  read  any  more  to-night."  She  closed 
the  book  and  laid  it  upon  the  table.  "  Now, 
my  dear,  tell  me  about  Mr.  Dudley ;  do  you 
like  him  as  well  as  ever?  " 


Irene  was  silent.  Her  mother  looked  up 
into  her  eyes.  The  girl  colored  slightly  and 
put  her  warm  cheek  against  her  mother's  as 
she  kissed  her. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Stanton,  suddenly 
thoughtful. 

"  Yes,  mamma  ;  but  Mr.  Dudley  is " 

She  was  interrupted  by  her  father's  en- 
trance. 

"Is  what,  Irene?"  he  asked,  pinching  her 
cheek  as  he  passed  over  to  his  easy-chair  near 
his  wife.  "  Out  with  it,  pet ;  have  you  found 
any  objection  to  my  paragon  of  manhood  and 
intellect  ?     Is  he  an  adventurer  ?" 

"  No,'*  she  laughed,  blushing  more  deeply ; 
"  but  he  is  a  critic " 

"  I  knew  he  was  a  critic,"  broke  in  Mr. 
Stanton,  gravely.  "  I  have  yet  to  meet  a  man 
better  posted  on  current  events,  ethics,  pol- 
itics, art,  literature — everything !  By  Joe  ! 
he  put  me  at  my  wits'  end  to  keep  up  with  his 
new  isms  and  olog-ies  !  " 

"  No,  papa,  I  don't  mean  exactly  that," 
plunged  Irene  beneath  the  warm  waves  of  con- 
fusion ;  "  but  he  has  been  literary  adviser  and 
critic  for  one  of  the  leading  magazmes." 


80  gi  Putf  ((tmit^m, 

Mr.  Stanton  refused  to  be  astonished,  al- 
though his  reply  came  after  a  significant  delay. 

"  There  is  really  nothing  to  be  wondered  at 
in  that,  my  dear,"  he  said,  running  his  hand 
through  his  hair,  "  for,  as  I  told  you,  his  opin- 
ion is  valuable.  I  have  thought  so  ever  since 
he  agreed  with  me  on  the  respective  merits  of 
Balzac,  Browning,  and  Hugo.  He  told  me 
that  my  criticisms  were  remarkably  strong  and 
to  the  point." 

"  I  know  that,  papa,"  she  said,  going  to  him 
and  seating  herself  on  his  knee. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  his  cigar 
smoke  enclouded  her  head. 

"  But  now  is  the  time  for  you  to  improve 
your  opportunities,"  said  he,  drawing  her  fondly 
against  his  breast.  "  The  stories  which  you 
have  been  writing  and  hiding  away  for  the 
last  ten  years  must  be  brought  out  and  shown 
to  him.  He  may  be  able  to  do  wonders  for 
you.  Your  sketches  of  the  negroes  and  our 
country  folk  are  remarkably  strong  and  well- 
drawn.     He  must  give  us  his  opinion." 

"  I  would  die  before  he  should,"  said  she, 
very  white  and  firm.  "  He  came  here  as  a 
boarder,  like  the  others ;  what  right  have  I  to 


^\u  ^umancc  of  a  Southern  ©own.  81 

tax  his  time  and  patience  with  my  silly  writ- 
ings. Such  men  are  burthened  with  hundreds 
of  requests.  On  the  mountain  I  saw  the  hotel 
clerk  hand  him  about  fifty  letters  and  papers 
all  in  a  bundle.  I  know  he  did  not  have  the 
time  or  patience  to  read  them  all,  for  he  was 
smoking  on  the  veranda  ten  minutes  later." 

"  Well,  well,  never  mind,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes.  "  But  where 
did  you  leave  him,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  On  the  front  veranda." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  here  am  I,  smoking  by  myself,  when  I 
have  a  whole  box  of  these  good  cigars  just  in. 
I  shall  go  doAvn  and  offer  him  one,  anyway." 

He  found  Morton  gazing  out  into  tlie  mys- 
tic moonlight,  seated  near  the  hammock. 

"  Take  a  cigar,"  said  Mr.  Stanton,  cheerily. 

Morton  accepted  it,  with  thanks. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  alone,  Mr.  Dudley," 

began  Mr.  Stanton,  plunging  into  the  subject 

that  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts.     "  I  want 

to  converse  with  you  on  a  matter  that  has  long 

interested  me  deeply.     It  is  in  regard  to  my 

dauo'hter's    talent   for    writing:.     I  know  that 

6 


8^  ^  ^nU  (^atiitmt 

you  are  a  competent  judge  of  such  matters, 
and  can  advise  me.  I  have  long  entertained 
strong  hopes  for  her  future.  She  has  never 
been  willing  to  submit  her  work  to  the  critics. 
Even  I,  am  obliged,  now  and  then,  to  steal  into 
her  desk  to  read  her  writings.  I  should  very 
much  like  you  to  read  something  by  her." 

"  I  should  be  charmed,  delighted !  "  said 
Morton,  feeling  a  thrill  of  anticipation  run 
through  him. 

"  Well,  come  with  me,"  returned  the  old 
man.  "  Now  is  a  good  time,  while  she  is  with 
her  mother.  I  really  feel  like  a  thief,  but  I 
know  I  am  acting  for  her  good." 

He  led  Morton  into  a  small  room  at  the  end 
of  the  hall,  lighted  by  a  large  window,  over  which 
an  awning  of  honeysuckle  vines  hung  in  rank 
abundance.  There  was  a  vague  cachet  of 
individuality  about  everything  in  it.  Some 
small  landscape-paintings  in  oil  hung  upon  the 
faded-blue  walls.  A  table  in  a  corner  held  a 
collection  of  books  and  magazines.  Morton's 
heart  rose  into  his  mouth  as  he  noted  his  "  Trans- 
o-ression  "  anions:  some  other  modern  novels. 
He  would  have  given  anything  to  possess  Irene's 
candid  opinion  of  his  book,  and  yet  he  felt  an 


(The  ^omanre  at  a  ^'outhfrn  ^om\.  83 

indefinable  dread  of  what  that  opinion  might 
be.  Near  the  window  was  a  httle  desk,  hardly 
larger  than  those  used  in  school-rooms.  As  Mr. 
Stanton  raised  its  lid,  an  old-fashioned  inkstand 
rolled  to  one  side  with  a  rattle  and  a  whir,  and 
Morton  felt  as  if  some  sacred  sacristy  were  being 
rudely  disturbed.  This  feeling  increased  as  Mr. 
Stanton  began  to  fumble  about  among  the  neat 
bundles  of  snowy  manuscript.  Morton  had 
never  felt  so  much  reverence  for  anything  inani- 
mate before.  He  put  himself  in  the  place  of 
the  absent  author,  remembering  that  he  coidd 
never  bear  to  think  of  any  one  reading  some  of 
his  unpubhshed  work. 

"  Here,"  said  the  father,  taking  out  a  neatly- 
folded  packet  and  glancing  at  the  title  over  his 
eyeglasses,  "  here  is  a  short  story  she  wrote 
last  year,  a  simple  tale  founded  on  the  death  of 
her  old  '  mammy.'  I  have  read  it  several  times, 
l)ut  never  without  tears,  for  it  is  very  true  to 
nature  and  strongly  pathetic.  Pardon  me  for 
praising  my  child's  work,  but  really  no  one  with- 
out deep  feeling  could  have  produced  this." 

Morton  took  the  faultlessly-written  sheets  in 
his  hands.  He  was  so  thoughtful,  so  distratf, 
that   Mr.  Stanton  looked  at   him  wonderingiy. 


84  %  ^Xwtt  (^mitmt 

"  Will  you  take  sometliing  else  ?  "  lie  ques- 
tioned, motioning  toward  the  open  desk.  "  She 
has  a  good  many  laid  away  here." 

"  Thank  you,  this  will  do,"  said  the  other, 
turning  away  ;  "  I  shall  be  careful  not  to  soil 
it.  I  have  never  seen  a  manuscript  in  more 
perfect  order.  I  assure  you  I  shall  read  it  with 
great  interest." 

Alone  in  his  great,  breezy  room,  Morton 
lighted  a  cigar  and  composed  himself  to  read  the 
manuscript  in  his  usual  lounging  attitude.  It 
interested  him  from  the  first  sentence.  The 
style  was  epigrammatic,  and  as  sinewy  as  that  ol 
a  Greek  play.  There  was  an  ineffable  poetic 
charm  over  the  whole  narrative,  a  quaint  pathos 
in  the  dialect,  and  the  actions  of  the  humble 
characters,  that  charmed  him  inexpressibly. 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes  when  the  story  was 
finished.  He  sighed,  rose  impulsively,  laid  the 
manuscript  on  the  table,  and  walked  out  on  to 
the  veranda. 

Down  in  the  yard  a  quaint  lullaby  was  being 
droned  by  a  negro  woman  over  a  sleeping  child. 
From  the  end  of  the  veranda  he  could  see  the 
row  of  cottages,  and  their  inmates  sitting  be- 
fore   them.     Lampli^li'    showed   through   the 


S;hc  Romance  of  a  ^^outUcvw  oivu.  85 

open  door  of  one.  The  lullaby  died  down,  giv- 
ing place  to  the  faint  mumbling  of  conversa- 
tion. A  woman  began  to  sing,  and  others 
joined  in.  Morton  could  not  make  out  the 
words,  but  the  melody  was  beautiful.  A  thou- 
sand regrets  rushed  over  him.  Irene's  story 
reminded  him  of  his  mother's  death.  He 
recalled  his  father's  grave,  puritanical  face, 
and  Lilly's  spirituelle  features.  He  felt  very 
sad  and  lonely. 


86  g^  ^ute  (^onit^m. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Next  morning  Morton  awoke  from  a  tangle 
of  conflicting  dreams.  The  cocks  were  crowing 
in  the  yard  below,  birds  were  singing  in  the 
trees  near  his  open  windows. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  and  when  he 
rose  and  looked  out  he  was  charmed  with  the 
view,  over  which  a  dim,  gray  atmospheric  veil 
hovered.  The  grass  was  sparkling  with  blue, 
green,  and  gold  dewdrops.  The  purple  and 
pink  clematis  flowers,  which  climbed  over  the 
veranda,  were  wide  open. 

His  first  thoughts  were  of  Irene's  story.  It 
was  lying  on  the  table  and  its  beautifully  writ- 
ten title-page  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  He 
folded  the  manuscript  carefully,  and,  going 
downstairs,  strolled  across  the  dewy  lawn  to 
a  spot  near  the  tall,  white  fence,  where  flowers, 
weeds,  and  bushes  grew  in  riotous  confusion. 
Three  umbraofeous  mag-nolia-trees  shaded  a  ram- 
shackle  summer-house^  around  which  clustered 


SDUe  ^omana  of  a  ^outhfvw  (^omx.  87 

a  wilderness  of  flowers  and  plants.  Tiger-lilies 
dipped  in  dew,  full-blown  roses  shedding  their 
beauty,  rosebuds  just  peeping  from  the  green, 
and  a  mass  of  trumpet-flowers  and  love-vines 
gave  fragrance  to  the  air. 

Sitting  down  in  the  summer-house  he  began  to 
re-read  the  story.  Again  its  subtle  power  took 
hold  of  him.  Suddenly,  without  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  paper,  he  became  aware  that  some 
one  was  looking  at  him.  He  looked  up.  Irene 
stood  in  the  door  of  the  latticed  wall,  a  strange, 
breathless  curiosity  in  her  eyes.  She  had  rec- 
ognized her  manuscript.  In  her  mute  bewil- 
derment she  appeared  more  startlingly  entranc- 
ing than  ever.  The  white  moon-flowers,  lightly 
touching  her  uncovered  golden  hair,  had  sprin- 
kled it  with  dewdrops.  Her  arms  were  filled 
with  fresh-cut  flowers. 

He  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered,  feeling 
his  face  grow  hot  beneath  her  unmelting  look. 

"  It  is  mine,  Mr.  Dudley,"  said  she  in  a  tone 
of  blended  indignation  and  pain. 

He  made  an  ignominious  failure  of  a  smile. 

"  I  cannot  deny  it,"  he  returned,  trying  to 
meet  her  eyes. 


88  §.  Pute  a^onit^m, 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

He  hesitated,  folding  the  crisp  leaves  of  the 
manuscript  a  little  awkwardly. 

"  Papa  gave  it  you,"  she  went  on,  almost 
bitterly.  "  He  said  something  last  night  about 
wanting  your  opinion."     • 

"  I  would  not  pain  you  for  the  world,"  said 
Morton,  so  earnestly  and  so  gently  that  her 
features  softened  and  her  lashes  began  to  quiver. 
"  It  has  given  me  great  pleasure  to  read  it.  It 
is  a  perfect  story.     It  is " 

"  Surely  you  read  rapidly,"  she  interrupted, 
a  noticeable  shadow  of  incredulity  rising  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Sometimes  I  do,"  said  he,  failing  to  see 
her  drift ;  "  but  I  have  read  this  most  carefully, 
I  assure  you " 

"  But  I  saw  you  open  it  as  I  was  coming 
across  the  grass  a  moment  ago,"  she  broke  in, 
bending  to  pick  a  white  thread  from  her  gown, 
and  crushing  her  flowers  ruthlessly  in  doing  so. 

"  Yes,  but  I  read  it  last  night,"  said  he, 
"  and  I  was  about  to — to  enjoy  it  again." 

He  saw  her  struggle  inwardly  to  prevent  her 
gratification  from  going  to  her  face.  A  dancing 
light  enhanced  the  beauty  of  her  eyes.     Her 


(The  ^lomaucc  ot  «  ^^outUcvu  m\m\.  89 

complexion  was  as  delicate  of  tint  as  the  inner 
surface  of  the  large  conch  shell  which  lay  at  her 
feet. 

"  Why  do  you  encourage  me  so  kindly  ?  " 
she  questioned,  sinking  into  a  seat  opposite  him 
and  filling  her  lap  to  overflowing  with  her  flowers. 

"  Because  you  have  been  too  long  without 
it,"  he  said,  sincerely.  "  This  is  really  one  of 
the  finest  character  sketches  I  ever  read !  " 

She  could  not  reply  at  once.  Her  great 
trustful  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  fell  to 
trembling.  He  looked  away  from  her,  feeling 
his  heart  swell  painfully. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  indeed ;  I  can  never 
forget  what  you  have  said  ;  "  she  faltered,  after 
a  moment ;  ''  but  do  I  not  make  a  great  many 
mistakes?" 

"  Not  more  than  many  well-known  authors 
— not  errors  that  an  editor  or  proof-reader  could 
not  easily  rectify.     May  I  show  you  ?  " 

Her  eyes  beamed  a  grateful  consent. 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  She  piled  her 
flowers  up  at  her  side  impulsively,  looking  very 
expectant;  and  as  she  moved  up  confidingly 
close  to  his  side,  he  felt  his  heart  bound  wildly 
and  then  settle  into  a  hot  spot  in  his  breast. 


90  J^  Putc  (Confc^.^or. 

An  indescribable  blur,  born  of  intense  feeling, 
came  before  liis  eyes.  He  did  not  want  to  speak 
then,  for  he  feared  that  she  would  detect  his 
aoitation  in  his  voice. 

He  held  the  paper  in  front  of  her,  and  his 
hand  rested  upon  hers,  warm  and  responsive. 
She  did  not  move  it.  She  seemed  to  have  no 
thought  for  anything  save  what  he  was  to  say. 
He  had  to  struggle  against  a  desire  to  throw 
his  arms  around  her  and  clasp  her  to  his  breast, 
for  something  told  him  that  she  was  giving 
him  her  heart  without  reservation,  and  that  he 
loved  her.  She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  as 
if  wondering  at  his  delay.  He  took  out  his 
pencil.  They  bent  their  hands  over  the  paper. 
Cupid,  hidden  among  the  flowers  and  vines, 
blew  a  single  thread  of  her  hair  against  his 
cheek,  and  it  thrilled  him  from  head  to  foot. 

"  See,"  said  he,  very  tenderly,  pointing  to 
a  line  with  his  pencil.  "  Don't  you  see  that 
you  might  have  made  this  sentence  stronger 
by  forming  two  of  it  ?     So — may  I  ?  " 

She  nodded,  and  he  quickly  made  a  period 
of  a  comma,  and  capitalized  a  small  letter. 

"  Oh ! "  she  exclaimed,  after  he  had  read  the 
two    sentences   with   strong   declamatory  effect 


(The  ilomaucc  of  a  ^^outUcvn  S^oivu.  01 

— "  oh  !  thank  you  ;  I  see  now,  I  shall  never 
foro-et  that  !  Here  is  another  that  has  the 
same  weakness." 

She  took  the  pencil  and  altered  the  text 
rapidly. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  he ;  "  how  quickly 
you  catch  an  idea  !  " 

Then  a  shadow  of  reserve  fell  upon  her.  It 
occurred  to  her  tliat  she  was  speaking-  too  freely 
with  him,  a  great  critic,  about  her  humble  ef- 
forts. He  would  not  have  looked  at  the  story 
if  her  father  had  not  given  it  to  him.  She 
grew  almost  rigid.  The  color  in  her  face 
began  to  fade.  She  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
manuscript,  but  he  drew  it  beyond  her  reach, 
wondering  at  her  sudden  change. 

"  Give  it  to  me,  Mr.  Dudley,"  she  said,  almost 
coldly. 

"  No,"  he  returned,  jestingly.  "  Your  father 
and  I  purloined  it  from  your  desk  in  the  dead 
of  night;  allow  me  to  unburthen  my  soul  by 
putting  it  back.  In  truth,  I  felt  very  guilty 
in  that  little  study  ;  it  seemed  sacred  to  me." 

She  did  not  return  his  smile,  although  her 
face  softened.  She  gathered  up  her  flowers, 
and,  rising,  started  out  of  the  door.     He  reached 


9^  ^  Put^  (i^mtmov, 

her  side  in  time  to  draw  the  damp  vines  out 
of  her  path. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  she. 

He  caught  her  eyes.  The  rigid  expression 
was  slowly  melting  from  her  mobile  mouth. 

"  Well,  we  will  put  it  back,"  said  she,  as  they 
walked  side  by  side  across  the  grass.  "  It  is 
really  not  worth  notice  or  thought.  It  was  all 
papa's  work.  He  always  wants  me  to  bow  and 
make  my  little  speech  to  every  stranger.  But 
I  am  truly  grateful  for  your  encouragement." 

He  told  her  he  had  done  nothing  to  merit 
her  gratitude,  and  they  went  into  the  little 
study  together. 

"  It  is  so  untidy,"  said  she,  raising  the  lid  of 
the  desk  ;  "  throw  it  in  with  the  rest." 

He  placed  it  carefully  exactly  where  her 
father  had  found  it. 

"Jane  !  "  Irene  called,  to  a  little  negro  girl 
who  was  sweeping  the  veranda,  "  come  take 
these  flowers  to  mamma's  room.  Put  them  in 
the  jar  near  her  lounge,  in  fresh  water." 

The  scrawny-limbed  black  girl  leaned  her 
broom-handle  against  a  window-pane,  and  car- 
ried away  the  flowers. 

"Here  are  some  of  my  favorite  books,"  said 


^ht  ^ommtt  of  a  ^outhcvn  ^om\,  93 

Irene,  brushing  the  dew  from  her  white  apron, 
and  laying  her  garden-shears  on  the  table, 
where  "  Transgression  "  peeped  from  a  pile 
of  others.  "  Most  of  these  are  by  American 
authors." 

Morton  experienced  a  queer  sensation.  He 
wondered  what  he  should  say  if  she  mentioned 
his  books. 

"  Here  is  '  Free  Joe '  and  some  other  tales  by 
our  own  '  Uncle  Remus,'  "  she  went  on.  "  Oh, 
I  think  Harris  is  grand  !  He  gets  my  heart- 
strings in  his  grasp  when  I  read  his  stories." 

Morton  could  not  formulate  a  reply,  for  her 
white  hands  were  movinsf  the  books  ri^ht  and 
left.  She  picked  up  "  Transgression "  care- 
lessly and  started  to  lay  it  down,  but,  as  if 
actuated  by  a  sudden  thought,  opened  it. 

"Did  you  ever  read  this,  by  Edgar  Morton, 
a  young  Northern  writer  ?" 

He  felt  that  he  could  not  answer  without 
embarrassment.  He  could  not  trust  his  lips 
even  to  the  utterance  of  a  monosyllable.  He 
put  his  handkerchief  to  his  mouth  and  coughed. 
She  was  waiting  for  a  reply,  her  great,  honest 
eyes  on  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  coughed  again. 


94  ^  '^Mit  <i^ontt^m\ 

He  determined  then  to  confess  that  he  had 
written  it ;  but  she  prevented  him. 

"  It  has  been  a  study  to  me  ;  I  have  read  so 
much  between  the  lines." 

"  What  have  you  read  between  the  lines  ?  " 
he  managed  to  ask,  his  tone  sounding  unnatural 
to  him. 

"  Enough  to  sympathize  with  the  author," 
said  she,  running  her  fingers  through  the 
leaves  as  if  searching  for  some  remembered 
passage.  "  He  has  great  power,  great  genius  : 
but  in  reading  this  book  I  was  constantly 
haunted  with  the  impression  that  he  had  two 
natures — a  bad  one  and  a  good  one.  He  moved 
me  to  tears  at  times ;  then  again  I  could  not 
help  despising  his  characters,  and  feeling  that 
he  had  made  them  like  himself — weak  and 
capable  of  deceit." 

She  looked  up  and  was  surprised  at  the  cold 
gleam  in  his  eyes  and  the  tense  expression  of 
his  face.  He  had  resolved  that  she  should 
never  know  who  he  was. 

"Oh,  what  have  I  been  saying?"  she  asked, 
in  dismay.  "  Is  the  author  a  friend  of  yours, 
Mr.  Dudley  ?  I  would  not  have  spoken  so  for 
anything  if " 


(the  Itomancf  ot  a  <^outheni  aToutt.  9^ 


"  No — no,  not  a  particular  friend,"  said  he, 
exerting  himself  to  crush  down  the  bitterest 
mortification  he  had  ever  felt.  At  that  moment 
he  had  not  a  hope. 

"  But  you  know  Edgar  Morton?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  have  seen  him — and  talked  with 
him — I  can't  say  that  I  know  him  well."  He 
shuddered,  and  avoided  her  trustful  eyes. 

The  breakfast-bell  began  to  ring  out  loudly. 
Judas,  a  little  dwarfed  negro  boy  with  large 
feet  and  bow  legs,  was  ringing  it  with  all  his 
might  as  he  shambled  through  the  hall. 

"  I  shall  not  go  in  now,"  Irene  said,  putting 
the  book  down ;  "  you  know  the  way  to  the 
dining-room." 

Her  smile  did  not  lift  the  weight  which  what 
she  had  said  had  put  upon  him ;  nor  did  the 
knowledge  that  she  knew  naught  of  his  disguise 
lessen  his  discontent.  The  clatter  of  the 
boarders'  feet  as  they  hurried  down  the  stairs 
and  out  to  the  dining-room  grated  harshly  upon 
his  nerves.  His  sky  of  hope,  but  yesterday  so 
clear  and  bright,  was  now  as  dark  as  a  pall. 
He  was  glad  that  Mr.  Stanton  was  not  at  break- 
fast, and  that  the  young  men  were  too  much 
engrossed  over  topics  peculiarly  their  own  to 


96  %  Ptttf  (^antt^ox. 

note  his  silence.  He  scarcely  touched  the  food 
that  portly  Aunt  Millie  set  before  him  with 
black,  attentive  hands.  He  gulped  down  his 
coffee  so  hot  that  it  burnt  his  throat,  and — 
asking  to  be  excused — rose  from  the  table 
before  the  others  had  finished  eating. 

He  went  out,  crossed  the  weed-grown  back- 
yard, and  passed  through  a  gate  into  a  wood  at 
the  rear  of  the  house.  Before  him  a  little  hill 
rose  gently.  He  climbed  to  its  summit  through 
a  thick  growth  of  young  pines.  The  top 
reached,  almost  the  whole  of  the  little  town  lay 
spread  out  before  him.  The  streets,  bordered 
with  low  buildings,  neglected  fences,  and  weed- 
grown  yards,  looked  as  disconsolate  as  he  felt. 

He  did  not  try  to  defend  himself  against 
what  Irene  had  so  truthfully  said.  He  felt  that 
she  was  now  beyond  him  forever.  He  might 
have  confided  in  her — might  have  told  her  of  his 
disguise  ;  but  it  was  now  too  late.  He  could  not 
bear  that  humiliation.  He  would  go  away  soon, 
return  to  New  York,  and  marry  the  heiress. 
After  that  he  would  f oro-et  the  stranofe  Southern 
episode  in  his  life.  He  would  not  allow  himself 
to  think  of  Irene  Stanton.  He  would  forget  how 
he  had  held  her  in  his  arms   that  day   on  the 


©he  ^{oiuaucc  o(  a  ^outhfvn  ^omt,  97 

rock — no,  that  he    could    not    forget,   not   as 
long  as  he  lived. 

Then  he  bethought  hmiself  that  he  owed 
Jean  a  letter,  and  he  went  slowly  back  to  his 
room.  He  sat  at  the  table  a  long  time  before  he 
began  to  write.  The  letter  was  very  short,  for 
he  was  nervous.  He  told  her  that  he  was  not 
feeling  very  well,  which  was  the  truth  ;  when  he 
ended  it,  he  was  obliged  to  go  over  it  again,  for 
he  had  written  very  carelessly,  omitted  a  good 
many  letters  and  words,  and  had  not  expressed 
himself  very  coherently. 
7 


98  ^  ^nU  ai^onfmot. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Days,  weeks,  a  month  passed  by.  Morton 
had  lingered  in  the  charming  household  much 
longer  than  he  had  expected.  The  boarders 
liked  him,  and  enjoyed  his  stories  of  the  North. 
He  had  won  the  hearts  of  the  negroes  by  his 
liberality,  and  they  were  ever  ready  to  do  his 
biiding. 

Old  Uncle  Tony  was  particularly  attracted  to 
the  young  stranger.  Tony  was  an  inveterate 
beggar,  and  seldom  hinted  to  "  Marse  Dudley  " 
that  he  wanted  a  dime  without  having  a  twenty- 
five-cent  piece  flipped  at  his  woolly  pate. 

One  bright  day,  Morton  saw  him  mending 
a  harness  in  the  stable-yard,  and  paused  to 
hear  the  old  darkey  talk.  As  he  did  so,  and 
leaned  over  the  fence  near  him,  Tony  was 
singing,  "  How  firm  er  foundation  de  saints 
er  de  Lawd ''  with  a  good  deal  of  satisfaction. 

"  Uncle  Tony,"  said  the  young  man,  "  are 
you  a  member  of  the  Church  ?  " 


^U  ^umaucc  of  a  J>j)uthevn  ^own,  99 

"  Yesser,  oh,  yesser  !  I  reckon  I  is  ;  I  done 
jine  'fo'  de  wall,  en  ergin  atter  de  wah.  He  ! 
he  !  En,  Marster,  ef  de  white  folks  git  up  er 
nurr  fight  'twix  um  all,  I  reckon  I  jine  de  Chii'ch 
ergin." 

"  Why  did  you  join  again  after  the  war  ? 
Did  you  change  your  belief  ?  " 

"  No,  suh,"  said  Tony,  scratching  his  de- 
formed leg  reflectively ;  "  no,  suh  ;  but,  yer 
see,  de  fus  time,  I  went  in  ez  er  sort  er  beast 
er  burden-lak  fer  de  white  folks,  en  I  didn't 
spect  ter  git  no  front  seat  in  de  time  ter  come, 
en  so  I  reckon  I  wuz  er  lill  shackly  wid  my 
'ligion.  I  des  prayed  w'en  I  felt  lak  it ;  en 
didn't  feel  lak  it  much,  kase,  yer  see,  I  'low 
dat  my  marster  will  see  I  got  tlioo  all  right, 
kase  dem  times  he  wuz  mighty  watchful  wid  all 
us  slaves.  He  wus  sometimes  even  erfeard  we 
gwine  catch  de  fever  f um'  sposure,  en  all  lak  dat." 

Morton  laughed.  "  So  you  are  more  careful 
since  you  joined  the  last  time.  You  haven't 
fallen  from  grace,  have  you?" 

"  Marster,  whut  de  use  in  ycu  er  talkin'  ? 
Now  you  know  nobody  ain'  gwine  fall  fum 
grace  atter  dey  once  git  deh.  Shuh !  you 
go  'long  !     You  never  min'  !     You  cayn't  fall 


100  §1  Pute  (ftonimot, 

fum  grace  less'n  you  hat  er  mare  name  Grace, 
en  fall  off'n  'er  ;  dat  de  onlies'  way,  sho  !  " 

"  Tony,"  asked  Morton,  in  a  lowered  tone, 
"  did  you  know  that  my  time  for  leaving  is  draw- 
ing near  ?     I  can't  stay  down  here  always." 

Tony's  face  fell.  He  raised  his  blue-black 
eyes  in  slow  surprise. 

"  Why,  Marse  Dudley,  you  ain'  shorely 
gwine  pick  up  en  go  oif,"  he  said,  regretfully. 

"  Yes,"  said  Morton,  touched  by  the  old 
man's  tone  ;  "  yes,  I  must  get  back  home  pretty 
soon." 

Tony  looked  him  directly  in  the  face. 

"  Marse  Dudley,  den  you  is  sho  ter  come  back 
ergin,  I  know." 

"  I  don't  know,  Tony,"  returned  Edgar,  feel- 
ing a  lump  in  his  throat  all  at  once ;  "  I  don't 
know  that  my  business  wiU  ever  caU  me  this 
way  again." 

The  serious  expression  of  the  old  darkey's 
eyes  was  mingled  with  a  gleam  of  cunning. 

"  Shuh  !  "  he  grunted,  "  you  cayn't  fool  dis 
darkey,  Marse  Dudley;  I  done  hat  too  much 
dealin's  wid  young  people.  Y'all  lak  ter  talk, 
en  talk,  but  suppen  'ight  deli,  Marse  Dudley  " 
(laying     his    scrawny   hand   over   his   heart), 


^>ht  ^Kowmxtt  at  a  Southern  ^owtx,        lol 

"  suppin  dell  gwine  fetch  you  ter  dis  house  'fo' 
de  suu  set  many  times.  Whut  'bout  my  young 
mistis,  suh  ?  Oh  !  law  !  you  ain'  f orgit  'er,  I 
know.  I'd  des  lak  ter  see  de  livin'  man  '  at 
kin,  atter  he  once  laid  eyes  on   'er." 

Morton  felt  his  heart  beat  more  quickly. 
He  looked  away  toward  the  little  hill  back  of 
the  lot,  a  suspicious  film  gathering  before  his 
vision. 

"  Marse  Dudley,"  went  on  Tony,  in  a  very 
deep  tone,  in  which  there  was  a  trace  of  husk- 
iness,  "  I  swar'  you  orter  feel  ez  proud  ez  er 
king,  suh.  Now  I'm  er-gwine  ter  tell  you  sup- 
pin  'at  I  wouldn't  tell  no  livin'  soul  'cep'  you, 
en  I  wouldn't  tell  you  but  I  see  you  des  love 
de  ve'y  groun'  young  miss  walk  on.  Oh,  my  ! 
you  cayn't  fool  me  ;  I  done  see  it  in  yo'  eyes 
mo'  times  en  I  is  got  fingers  en  toes.  I  done 
seed  you  git  white  en  flabby  dat  time  w'en 
you  is  made  'er  fly  up  so  on  de  front 
po'ch  er  de  big  house  w'en  you  'low  dat  de 
niggers  wuz  mistreat  by  some  marsters  lak 
Unc'  Tom  wuz  in  his  cabin,  en  so  on.  I  wuz 
mighty  sorry  fer  you,  Marse  Dudley,  w'en  I 
see  'er  flounce  erway  en  lef  you  all  by  yo'se  'f 
'mongst    de  vines.      I  don't  know   who  Unc' 


102  %  put«  (!toufc?\$'ov. 

Tom  wus,  en  who  done  tole  you  so  much,  bout 
de  strappin',  but  I  boun'  yo'  young  miss  know 
all  erbout  it ;  en  I  boun'  yer  dat  nigger  didn' 
git  mo'n  he  need. 

"  Well,  I  had  my  eye  on  you  bofe  all  nex' 
day,  en,  Marse  Dudley,  now,  you  did  des  look 
awful !  You  look  lak  you  mighter  been  sick  fer 
er  mont',  en  you  went  mopin'  roun'  all  dat 
day.  I  didn't  see  young  miss  at  meal  times, 
en  so  I  kep'  er  watch  out  fer  'er.  'Twuz  late 
dat  day  w'en  I  seed  'er  walkin'  out  to'ds  de 
hill  back  deh,  en  I  lay  fer  'er,  I  did.  I  made 
out  lak  I  wuz  busy  'mongst  de  trees ;  en  w'en 
she  come  erlong  so  slow-lak  in  de  dusky  light, 
I  hope  I  mer  die  ef  she  didn't  look  lak  er  ghos', 
she  so  white.  She  stopped  at  er  rosebush,  en 
seem  lak  she  wuz  on  de  pint  er  pickin'  er  red 
one  er  two,  bu.t  she  didn't,  en  des  stood  stark 
still  en  look  away  off  at  de  sky.  Den  she  put 
er  hankercher  up  at  'er  eyes  en  trembled  lak 
er  leaf  in  er  wind.  She  ain't  see  me,  Marse 
Dudley ;  but  I  knowed  dat  you  en  'er  wuz 
bofe  sick  wid  de  same  puny  complaint. 

"Well,  dat  same  night,  you  know  you  is 
call  me  up  ter  yo'  room  en  give  me  er  note  fer 
'er.     I  do  know  you  seem  lak  yo'  last  hour 


®hc  ^omanfe  a(  a  <^otttlwvu  (^axm.         103 

wuz  ter  han'.  I  know  zactly  what  ail  you,  but 
I  never  let  on,  en  tuk  de  note  up  ter  Miss 
Inie.  She  wuz  in  'er  maw's  room.  Ole  Miss 
wuz  ersleep  on  de  bed,  en  she  wuz  settin' 
at  de  winder,  all  by  'erse'f,  mighty  still  en 
squshed-lak. 

"  '  What  you  want,  Tony  ? '  she  say,  'dout 
lookin'  up.  She  is  know  me  by  de  way  dis  'ole 
leg  shuffle  kerflipity  flop — kerflipity-flop  when 
I  walk. 

"  ^  I  is  fotch  er  letter  fum  Marse  Dudley,'  I 
say  ;  '  he  des  now  ax  me  ter  fetch  it,  en  so  he'p 
me.  Miss  Inie,  he  certney  is  ve'y  sick,  en  ef  it 
is  fer  any  medicine,  I  kin  tek  it  immegiate, 
kase  he  do  need  'tention.'  (Tony  hid  a  smile 
with  his  long  hand.) 

"  Marse  Dudley,  dat  young  lady  des  jump  up 
en  mos'  snatch  de  paper  fum  me,  en  she  stood 
at  de  table  in  de  light  er  de  lamp  en  read  it ;  en 
I  hope  I  mer  die  ef  she  ain't  bust  out  cryin' 
over  it.  She  turn  her  back  ter  me  en  stood 
mighty  still  fer  er  long  time.  Deh  wuzn't  no 
soun'  'cep'  'ole  miss  er-breathin'.  Den  terrectly 
Miss  Inie  tun'  roun',  en  we'n  she  speak,  her 
voice  des  ez  shaky  ez  er  flutter-wheel. 

"  *  Yes,'  she  say,  '  Tony,  you  kin  say  ter  Mr. 


104  %  Pwti?  (^mitmi(* 

Dudley  dat  I  will  grant  his  'ques',  en  will  be  m 
de  parlor  in  er  few  minutes,  des  ez  soon  ez  I 
kin  leave  mamma  ! ' 

"  But  you  know  all  dat,  Marse  Dudley — de 
ain't  no  use  in  me  tellin'  you,  kase  you  know 
you  bofe  set  up  tell  marster  stopped  it,  kase  it 
so  late  dat  night,  en  tuk  on  lak  two  lill  ehillun 
over  er  new  plaything.  Dat  de  onlies  fuss  I 
ever  seed  up  'twix  you,  en  I  reckon  dat  ernough. 
Des  one  mo'  day  er  dat  en  I  do  b'lieve  you 
bofe  'u'd  er  been  down  in  bed.  Now,  I  reck- 
on you  won't  come  so  spry  ter  dis  yer  nigger  en 
tell  yo'  tales  'bout  you  is  gwine  off ;  en  you 
never  is  gwine  git  back  ;  en  so  on — en  so  on." 

Tony  was  smiling  with  good-natured  cun- 
ning, but  Morton  was  silent.  He  turned  away 
with  a  sudden  determination  to  ask  Irene  to 
walk  with  him.  And  when  she  came  tripping 
down  the  stairs  to  join  him,  looking  so  bewitch- 
ingly  beautiful  under  her  great  black  straw 
hat,  he  remembered  Tony's  words,  and  his 
heart  went  out  to  her.  He  was  not  demon- 
strative during  their  walk,  though  he  did  not 
lose  a  word  of  her  talk,  or  allow  one  expres- 
sion of  her  face  to  escape  him.  She  was  so 
beautiful — and  so  happy  ! 


site  ^0ma«cc  of  a  ^outhevu  ^om\.         105 

They  strolled  out  into  the  meadows  that  lay 
beyond  the  town's  ragged  suburbs.  He  was 
tempted  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet  and  con- 
fess everything.  Once  he  assisted  her  to 
cross  a  brook  on  the  water-browned  stepping 
stones.  He  took  her  soft,  warm  hand,  and 
seemed  to  feel  her  Hfe-blood  pour  into  his 
veins.  He  held  it  for  a  moment  after  he  had 
helped  her  across.  She  looked  up  into  his 
eyes  half  questioningly,  and  blushed  as  she 
caught  his  strange,  ardent  glance.  She  drew 
her  hand  from  his  clasp,  and  became  very 
silent,  paying  close  attention  to  gathering  wild 
flowers  and  grasses.  She  was  wondering  why 
he  had  never  spoken  of  the  love  which  intui- 
tion told  her  was  hers.  And  he  was  thinking 
about  Jean  Wharton,  and  his  duty  to  her,  and 
his  future.  He  decided  once  that  he  would  give 
up  the  heiress  and  everything  for  the  soulful 
girl  at  his  side,  but  the  memory  of  what  she 
had  said  about  the  author  of  "  Transgression  " 
stole  into  his  brain  and  banished  the  impulse. 
No  he  could  not  tell  her  who  he  was ;  it  was 
too  late  ;  he  must  give  her  up  ;  she  would  de- 
spise him.  He  knew  now,  beyond  a  doubt, 
that  she  loved  him,  and  that  when   he  went 


106  |t  ittttc  (^awtmat. 

away  to  return  no  more  she  would  be  unhappy. 
But  she  would  have  to  bear  it.  And  he — well  in 
his  active  future  life  he  might  be  able  to  put 
her  from  his  heart ;  at  any  rate  he  would  try. 
He  believed  that  he  had  enough  honor  not 
to  make  her  trouble  any  greater,  so  in  a  very 
short  time  he  would  go.  Then  she  would  think 
that  he  had  not  spoken  because  he  did  not  love 
her.  But  these  reflections  made  him  very  mis- 
erable ;  made  him  care  very  httle  for  what  the 
future  might  bring.  Somehow  he  could  not 
think  of  the  future  without  her.  That  night 
after  leaving  her  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  Tony  had  known  him  better  than  he  had 
known  himself. 

One  afternoon,  shortly  after  this,  while  read- 
ing in  his  room,  he  noticed  that  the  sky  had 
become  so  overcast  with  thick  clouds  that  little 
light  entered  the  windows.  The  clouds  thick- 
ened and  grew  more  threatening.  Now  and 
then  came  an  ominous  roar  of  thunder.  The 
lightning  began  to  flash  in  the  dense  clouds 
in  dazzling,  zigzag  shafts,  which  soon  followed 
one  another  in  such  rapid  succession  that  the 
whole  black  sky  to  the  north  seemed  to  reflect 
the  flames  of  some  burning  world. 


®hc  ^amaiwc  of  a  J^outhcm  ^own,         107 

Morton  could  hardly  see  twenty  yards  before 
him.  The  tall  trees  on  the  lawn  were  enveloped 
in  a  gloom  that  moved  along  in  murky  spots  Hke 
living  shadows.  The  long  white  fence  came 
Into  view  now  and  then  like  a  mighty  fallen 
pillar  which  had  held  the  lowering  firmament 
in  place.  The  wind  rose.  Leaves  and  frag- 
ments of  moss  and  bark  rattled  against  the 
window-panes.  Clouds  of  dust  loomed  up  from 
the  streets  and  gave  material  density  to  the 
gloom.  The  vines  against  the  windows  began 
to  writhe  and  lash  the  glass  furiously.  The 
trees  with  branches  interlocked  wrestled  with  one 
another  in  the  fury  of  the  blast.  A  weeping- 
willow  down  by  the  walk  gave  its  tender  twigs 
and  long  leaves  to  the  storm. 

There  was  a  dazzling  stream  of  electricity ; 
a  deafening  roar  of  thunder,  a  crash  ;  and  a 
giant  oak  near  the  house  was  shattered  into 
a  thousand  pieces.  A  heavy  limb  was  hurled 
down  upon  the  roof,  and  the  very  walls  seemed 
to  totter.  Loud  cries  of  fear  came  from  below. 
Morton  dashed  down  the  stairs.  In  the  sitting- 
room  he  found  all  the  negroes  gathered  around 
Irene  and  her  mother  and  her  aunt. 

Aunt  Del  was  grovelling  on  her  knees  and 


108  %  Ptttc  (KonfciSi^at 

pleading  to  Mrs.  Stanton  to  save  her.  Tony 
sat  trembling  in  a  chair,  his  dilated  eyes  gleam- 
ing in  the  dark  like  a  cat's.  A  half  dozen  little 
darkies  sent  up  new  and  more  deafening  cries 
with  each  blast  that  shook  the  windows. 

"  Marse  Dudley  !  "  gasped  the  fat  cook,  as 
Edgar  entered,  "  we  all  gwine  be  blowed  up 
dis  time  sho  ;  dis  is  de  Lawd's  wuk  !  " 

Edgar  made  his  way  to  Irene,  through  the 
excited  throng,  forcibly  detaching  the  hands  of 
several  clinging  little  negroes  from  her  gown. 
He  had  never  seen  her  calmer. 

"  I  am  only  concerned  about  mamma,"  she 
said,  raising  her  voice  so  that  he  could  hear  her 
above  the  clang  and  clamor  of  storm ;  "  she  has 
not  been  so  well  as  usual  to-day ;  this  excite- 
ment is  unfortunate  for  her." 

"  Don't  fear  for  me,  darling,"  Mrs.  Stanton 
joined  in,  making  a  trumpet  of  her  thin  hand. 
"I  am  all  right.  There  is  not  the  least  dan- 
ger; the  walls  are  very  strong." 

Morton  ran  to  close  a  window  which  had 
become  unfastened.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents. 
Stones,  pieces  of  timber,  and  shingles  rattled 
against  the  blinds,  and  the  water  streamed  in 
through  broken  window-panes. 


SPlie  ^tamanrc  ot  a  ^outhcvn  (Toa-n.         109 

Uncle  Rastus,  Aunt  Del's  husband,  a  long, 
slender  negro,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  was 
kneeling  in  a  corner  praying. 

"  Good  Lawd !  "  he  groaned  out,  in  jerky 
sentences,  ''  des  listen  ter  dat  win' !  Des  listen 
how  de  sto'm  is  comin'  down  on  sech  er  good 
'oman  ez  ole  Miss,  en  you  ain't  mek  it  let  up  ! 
Fer  Gawd's  sake,  Lawd,  sen'  dy  mercy  down 
ter  tamper  wid  dis  sto'm  at  once,  en  let  us  off 
safe  !  Lawd !  "  (as  a  sudden  flash  of  lightning 
illuminated  the  room)  "  whut's  dis  ?  "  And  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  stood  quaking  near  his 
dusky  wife. 

Irene,  seeing  the  pictures  and  curtains 
in  the  adjoining  room  blown  about  wildly, 
hastened  thither  to  close  a  window.  Morton 
followed  her.  The  wind  shut  the  door 
behind  them  with  a  loud  slam,  and  they  were 
alone  together  in  the  partial  darkness.  She 
had  succeeded  in  lowering  the  window  ere  he 
could  reach  her,  but  as  she  turned  back  she 
ran  into  his  embrace.  Impulsively  he  closed 
his  arms  around  her  delicious  form.  He  could 
not  have  helped  it  to  save  his  life.  She  did 
not  struggle,  but  turned  and  looked  up  into 
his  eyes,  her  whole  face  illumined  with  love. 


110  ^  ptttf  iif^onimoK^ 

"  I  cannot  help  it,  my  brave  darling !  "  he 
ejaculated.  "  I  love  you.  I  love  you  with  all 
my  soul !  " 

She  made  no  effort  to  release  herself  from 
his  arms,  which  tightened  tenderly  around  her. 
Her  eyes  betrayed  no  great  surprise,  but  they 
kindled  with  untold  happiness.  He  drew  her 
queenly  head  to  his  shoulder.  He  lowered  his 
face  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  once,  twice, 
thrice.  Her  hand  met  his  in  a  warm,  spasmodic 
clasp.  In  that  contact  with  her  lips  he  gave 
himself  up  to  his  love  for  her.  He  could  only 
look  at  her  transfigured  face  in  a  dazed  sort  of 
fashion,  tingling  in  every  fibre  with  ecstatic 
delight.  Then  he  kissed  her  lingeringly,  and 
tried  to  speak,  but  could  not  even  whisper.  A 
loud  noise  came  from  the  adjoining  room,  and 
she  moved  away  from  him. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  softly;  and  they  went 
together  toward  the  sitting-room. 

He  did  not  drop  her  hand  till  they  were 
entering  the  door.  He  stood  near  Mrs.  Stanton 
and  Mrs.  Livingston,  and  tried  to  assure  them 
calmly  that  the  worst  of  the  storm  was  past, 
but  the  flame  within  him  seemed  to  consume 
his  words  ere  they  reached  his  lips.     Irene  was 


(B\u  ^omanc^  of  a  ^outhevw  ^ovcn.         111 

telling  Tony  that  there  was  no  further  danger, 
and  as  he  joined  his  words  to  hers,  he  felt  a 
delicious  sense  of  ownership  in  her,  and  noted 
with  ineffable  delight,  her  softened  manner  as 
she  turned  to  her  aunt  and  her  mother. 

Irene  stole  away  to  her  room  upstairs  to 
be  alone  with  her  emotions.  She  stood  at  a 
window  and  looked  out  at  the  murky  weather. 
The  rain  beat  in  at  a  broken  pane  over  her 
head,  and  shed  a  fine  mist  upon  her,  but  she 
heeded  it  not.  Her  face  was  hot,  and  brightly 
aglow. 

"  He  loves  me  !  He  loves  me  !  "  she  mur- 
mured, over  and  over,  to  herself,  as  if  she  were 
talking  in  a  dream.  Gradually  the  skies  grew 
yellow,  the  rain  and  wind  ceased.  An  infinite 
calm  settled  upon  the  storm-swept  earth.  She 
went  down,  and  walked  round  to  the  front  ve- 
randa. Morton  was  there,  eagerly  watching  for 
her  appearance.  Her  eyes  fell  before  the  bright- 
ness of  his  face.  She  tried  to  meet  him  as  she 
had  so  often  done  before,  but  she  could  not, 
besides,  her  aunt  was  standing  on  the  veranda. 

"  Let's  walk  down  to  the  gate,"  he  said  under 
his  breath  ;  and  without  a  word  she  complied. 
In  the  west  the  sunset  skies  were  purple,  red 


112  ^  Ittttte  (i!^mUmt. 

and  gold.  They  saw  the  branches  of  trees, 
which  had  been  torn  off  by  the  storm,  and  the 
splinters  of  the  shattered  oak.  A  side  fence 
was  down.  Streamlets  ran  gurgling  across  the 
lane. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  my  favorite  oak  was  struck." 
She  sighed,  but  the  sigh  seemed  belied  by  the 
glow  in  her  cheeks.  "  And  see,  our  retreat, 
the  summer-house,  is  flat  upon  the  earth." 

After  the  evening  meal,  at  which  he  had 
feasted  his  eyes  upon  her  face  in  the  lamplight, 
he  got  her  shawl  and  followed  her  to  the 
veranda,  and  there,  in  the  dark,  she  allowed  him 
to  draw  it  gently  around  her.  They  sat  for 
a  half  hour,  silent  and  happy.  The  air  was 
delightfully  cool,  and  laden  with  the  perfume 
of  storm-beaten  flowers.  The  moon  rose  and 
threw  a  mystic  veil  over  the  scene.  They  talked 
of  the  storm  and  the  superstitious  fright  of  the 
negroes,  and  laughed  together,  merrily.  At 
last  he  put  out  his  hand  and  ventured  to  take 
hers  from  the  arm  of  her  chair.  She  yielded 
it,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  trustingly. 

"  Were  you  angry  with  me  during  the  storm  ?  " 
he  asked,  presently. 


®Jtf  Romance  oi  a  ^outlwttt  ^own,         118 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  did  not  reply.  He 
put  his  hand  around  her  slender  waist.  She 
looked  up  ;  in  their  blending  gaze  their  spirits 
seemed  to  unite.     He  drew  her  into  his  arms. 

"  Were  you  angry  ?  "  he  repeated,  hardly 
knowing  what  he  said. 

"  No,"  she*  replied,  "  not  if  you  love  me." 

"  Do  you  doubt  it  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  No,  I  could  not  doubt  you  in  anything,  for 
—for " 

"  For  you  love  me  ?     Say  it." 

A  bright,  tremulous  smile  came  over  her 
face,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Tell  me  that  you  do  ! "  he  pleaded,  his 
face  very  near  her  own. 

She  looked  steadily  into  his  eyes  for  a  moment, 
then  answered :  "  Yes,  I  do  love  you — very 
much." 

Mr.  Brown  was  playing  a  sacred  melody  on 
his  flute,  in  his  room.  Little  Judas,  the  dwarfed 
black  boy,  and  his  long,  slender  sister  came  up 
the  waUc,  lugging  between  them  a  hamper- 
basket  filled  with  spHnters  from  the  shattered 
oak.  They  paused  to  rest  within  a  few  steps 
of  where  the  lovers  sat  behind  the  thick  vines. 

"  Yes,  en  you  des  open  yo'  gap  mouf  en  cry 
8 


114  1^  Iftut*  (itmte^^at 

lak  er  pig  wid  'is  liver-string  cut  w'en  de  sto'm 
come,"  said  the  girl.  "  En  you  mos'  t'ar  old 
Miss  dress  off'n  her,  you  so  bad  skeerd." 

"  Who  open  dey  mouf  en  cry.  Miss  ?  " 

"  You  !  dat's  who,  you  Hll  ole  squat  frog  !  " 

"Didn't!" 

"  Did !  " 

"  Didn't !  " 

"  Did !  Come  on,  yer  fool !  I'll  slap  yo* 
chunk  haid  off  ef  you  'spute  my  wud !  " 

"  Didn't  cry,"  weakly  defiant. 

"  DID  !  !  !  "  at  the  top  of  her  shrill  voice ; 
and  she  lifted  her  side  of  the  basket  five  or 
six  inches  higher  than  his  and  jerked  him  along 
furiously. 

"  Didn't,"  very  faintly,  for  he  was  trying  to 
keep  his  end  of  the  burden  off  the  ground. 

"Did-did-did-did-did-did-did-did-DID  !  "  and 
they  turned  the  corner,  leaving  the  echo  of  the 
last  feminine  "  did  "  ringing  in  the  resounding 
haU. 

The  lovers  laughed. 

"  That  is  prognostic  of  my  fate  in  the  future," 
he  said,  playfully.  "  I  am  Httle  Judas,  and 
you,  Ca'Hne,  will  always  have  the  last  word." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  became  very  silent. 


^\tc  ^omnncc  of  a  <^DUtltevn  torn.        115 

The  remark  reminded  him  of  his  engagement 
to  Jean  Wharton,  and  a  damper  fell  on  his  hap- 
piness. He  too  became  very  quiet  and  thought- 
ful. He  decided  that  he  would  write  to  Jean 
and  ask  for  his  release,  and  then  he  would  con- 
fess everything  to  Irene  and  ask  her  to  be  his 
wife.  Just  then  some  one  called  Irene  in  the 
house,  and,  telling  him  good-night,  she  left 
him. 


116  '     %  itttt?  a^owUmv. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Morton  started  to  his  room.  He  wanted  to 
think  over  a  great  many  things.  Brown's 
apartment  was  directly  opposite  to  his,  across 
the  haU.  The  door  was  open,  and  Edgar 
could  see  him,  flute  in  hand,  at  a  table  on 
which  stood  a  shaded  lamp   and  a  music-book. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  musician,  looking  up ; 
"  come  in  and  be  sociable.  When  I  have 
nothing  else  to  do  I  stay  at  home  and  take 
things  easy." 

"I  always  know  when  you  are  here,"  said 
Morton,  taking  a  chair  ;  "  for  I  can  smell  your 
tobacco  across  the  hall  and  hear  your  music. 
You  are,  Hke  myself,  fond  of  smoking." 

"  Dudley,"  said  Brown,  laying  his  damp  in- 
strument upon  the  table,  and  filling  his  great 
pipe,  "  I  declare  you  have  a  soft  thing,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  idle  the  time  away  here  in 
this  shady  old  place.  I  am  sure  I  envy  you 
your  luck." 


^ht  Romance  oi  a  ^0Uthct:u  (Toww,  117 

"  But  it  is  monotonous,  sometimes,"  said 
Morton,  seeing  the  fellow's  drift  instantly. 
"  You  know  I  haven't  long  to  stay  in  the 
South  ;  I  must  be  getting  home." 

"  Yes,"  said  Brown,  smiling  in  a  knowing 
way ;  "  but  when  you  do  go,  my  dear  fellow, 
you'll  leave  the  best  part  of  yourself  here." 
He  laughed,  and  rubbed  his  side-whiskers  back 
with  his  thin  hands.  "  You  see,  Dudley,  I've 
known  the  fair  angel  of  this  house  for  a  num- 
ber of  years,  and,  bless  me  !  if  I  ever  knew  a 
man  to  see  her,  to  know  her,  as  you  have  done, 
without  falling  head  over  heels  in  love  with 
her.  It's  only  natural.  I  never  thought  of 
her  in  that  way  myself,  because  I  kneAv  there 
was  no  use ;  but  that  girl  has  no  equal  on  the 
top  of  this  earth." 

"  And  you  think,"  returned  Morton,  trying 
to  speak  indifferently — "  you  think  that  a  man 
can't  know  her  without  losing-  his  heart  ?  " 

Brown  smiled  again.  "  He  might,  if  he  was 
made  out  of  stone  or  metal,  but  I  don't  think 
you  are,  Mr.  Dudley ;  and,  moreover,  I  think 
you  are  cultivated  enough  to  appreciate  her, 
and  see  what  there  is  in  her.  Oh,  she  has  had 
matrimonial  opportunities  enough ;  you  need 


118  ^  Putf  (f^anUmt. 

not  doubt  that.  Last  winter,  when  she  visited 
her  uncle  in  Atlanta,  a  rich  young  railroad 
president  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  followed 
her  home.  I  know  that  he  wanted  to  marry 
her,  and  I  know  that  he  got  left;  for  I  saw 
him  leaving  the  day  she  did  him  up.  I  never 
saw  such  a  face  on  a  live  man.  Then  there 
was  a  banker  in  Macon,  a  handsome  young 
fellow,  who  used  to  come  here  to  see  her  ;  but 
he  was  served  the  same  way.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  Dudley,  she  really  does  like  you  better 
than  she  ever  has  any  of  the  others  ;  that  is 
plain.  I'm  sure  I  wish  you  luck.  But  they 
are  awfully  poor  and  hard  run,  and  as  proud 
as  Lucifer.  The  old  gentleman  has  lost  a  great 
deal  of  late.  The  man  that  takes  her  must 
do  his  duty  by  the  family  ;  but  who  wouldn't 
for  such  a  girl  ?  " 

Morton  was  deeply  interested,  though  he 
half  resented  Brown's  voluble  familiarity.  He 
was  glad  when  Tony  came  with  his  mail. 

"Yer's  some'n  fer  you,  Marse  Dudley,"  he 
said,  shambling  into  the  room,  his  hat  in  one 
hand  and  a  bundle  of  letters  in  the  other. 

"  All  right,  Tony,"  said  Edgar,  taking  the 
letters,  and  leaving  Brown  to  his  flute  and  pipe. 


S^he  Romance  of  a  Jiouthftw  iDomx.         119 

He  went  into  his  room  to  be  alone.  After 
he  had  lighted  his  lamp,  he  sat  for  a  long  time 
at  his  writing-table,  his  letters  unopened  before 
him.  Brown's  words  had  pleased  him  inex- 
pressibly. Irene  had  refused  other  men,  men 
of  position  and  of  wealth,  and  she  loved  him. 
Then  he  began  to  look  over  his  letters.  One 
was  from  Lang  &  Princeton,  his  publishers,  stat- 
ing that  they  were  anticipating  with  pleasure 
the  receipt  of  the  MS.  for  his  next  work. 

Another  was  from  Jack  Thornton,  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  his. 

"  Where  are  you,  old  chap  ?  "  it  ran.  "  I 
direct  this  in  care  of  Lang  &  Princeton,  hoping 
that  it  may  reach  you.  Wherever  you  are,  my 
dear  fellow,  you  ought  to  have  burning  ears, 
for  you  and  your  last  affair  are  causing  a  good 
deal  of  gossip.  You  know,  of  course,  that 
Count  Dartley  is  paying  most  devoted  attention 
to  Miss  Wharton.  He  is  her  shadow  every- 
where she  goes.  And  rumor  says  she  has 
thrown  you  overboard,  and  that  you,  my  poor 
broken-hearted  friend,  have  skipped  out  to 
Europe  to  escape  hearing  of  the  matter.  All  of 
which  I  do  not  believe.     Come  home  and  tell 


120  ^  fttttc  (K0Uff^;^oi\ 

us  all  about  yourself.  I  congratulate  you  on 
the  popularity  of  your  literary  work.  I  hear 
your  name  on  all  sides.  Write  !  If  you  don't 
want  me  to  know  your  hiding-place,  date  your 
letter  *  Nowhere,'  but  by  all  means — write  * 
"  Yours,  truly, 

"  Jack." 

Morton  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  He 
was  vaguely  angry.  Of  all  things  calculated 
to  sting  his  pride  he  disliked  nothing  so  much 
as  being  considered  a  rejected  suitor.  Could 
Jean  be  so  foolish  as  to  want  to  marry  for  a 
title  ?  And  yet  he  remembered  that  she  had 
mentioned  the  count  many  times  in  her  letters, 
He  had  been  thinking  about  Irene  so  much  of 
late  that  he  had  neglected  the  heiress  badly. 

He  ran  through  the  pile  of  letters,  seeking 
one  from  her.  He  found  one  dated  at  New 
port  and  opened  it  with  suspense. 

"  My  dear  Edgar  :  "  it  said,  "  I  really  think 
that  you  have  treated  me  shamefuUy.  I  do  not 
intend  to  write  you  a  long  letter,  because  yours 
was  so  short.  I  suppose  you  are  having  a 
delightful  time  down  there  with    your  'new 


®he  Romance  of  a  ^outHcvn  (Town*         121 

friends.'  I  have  a  little  piece  of  news  for  you. 
Uncle  Eben,  the  Philadelphia  merchant,  died 
last  week  and  has  left  me  liaK-a-million  dollars. 
I  never  knew  him  well,  therefore  I  will  not  be 
hypocritical  enough  to  pretend  to  be  broken- 
hearted ;  but  it  was  awfully  good  of  him  to 
remember  me  in  his  will. 

"  We  have  been  having  quite  a  gay  time 
here,  but  we  shall  shortly  return  home.  Count 
Dartley  and  his  sister  ai-e  with  us,  and  it  has 
been  quite  pleasant.  You  know  I  have  never 
been  fond  of  titled  people,  as  a  rule,  but  the 
count  is  such  a  true  gentleman,  and  so  unas- 
suming !  I  know  you  w^ould  Hke  him.  Do 
you  know,  I  have  heard  several  times  that  he 
and  I  are  engaged.  How  silly  such  reports 
are!  But  every  girl  is  sure  to  have  them 
circulated  about  her  !     More  an  other  time,  dear 

Edg-ar. 

"  Jean." 

Morton  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns  as  he 
read  and  re-read  the  letter.  He  laid  it  down 
and  walked  to  and  fro  in  his  room.  To  do  him 
justice  it  should  be  said  that  in  his  excitement 
Ii-ene  was  out  of  his  thoughts,     He  could  think 


122  it  Putc  i^onUmx, 

of  but  one  thing  at  that  moment,  and  that  was 
that  Jean,  whom  he  had  so  long  regarded  as 
his  property,  was  falling  in  love  with  some  one 
else. 

He  ground  his  teeth  in  mingled  regret  and 
anger.  He  convinced  himself  that  he  had 
been  a  fool  in  deliberately  neglecting  such  a 
golden  opportunity,  and  all  on  account  of  a 
beautiful  girl  who,  after  all,  might  not  be 
necessary  to  his  happiness.  Had  not  Brown 
just  spoken  of  her  father's  great  financial 
straits  ?  What  right  had  he,  a  poor,  money- 
less author,  to  aspire  to  her  hand.  Had  Irene  at 
that  moment  stood  before  him  in  all  her  purity 
and  loveliness  he  could  never  have  written 
the  letter  that  he  wrote  to  Jean  Wharton,  he 
would  have  known  himself  too  well. 

He  sat  down  to  his  typewriter.  He  was  too 
excited  to  use  a  ])en.  Besides,  Jean  had  once 
told  him  that  she  rather  liked  him  to  write 
to  her  on  the  machine  with  which  he  made 
his  "copy"  for  publication,  and  he  had  occa- 
sionally humored  her  whim.  Two  sheets  of  writ- 
ing paper,  with  a  sheet  of  carbon  paper  between 
them,  were  ready  for  use  on  the  roller.  He 
Jbad  intejided,  that  morning,  to  make  a  couple 


^\\t  ^lomaucc  of  a  ^outhcvu  eouit.  123 

of  copies  of  a  poem,  but  hearing'  Irene's  voice 
below,  he  had  forgotten  to  begin  the  work. 
He  now  saw  only  the  outside  sheet,  and  set  to 
work  rapidly.  When  the  letter  was  finished  he 
drew  it  from  the  machine  with  a  metallic  whir. 
The  carbon  paper  fell  behind  the  table,  and  an 
exact  copy  of  the  letter,  on  thin  linen  paper, 
but  unsigned,  blcAv  away  unnoticed  on  to  the 
floor.  While  he  was  writing  his  name  with  a 
pen,  and  addressing  an  envelope,  the  white  cur- 
tains in  the  deep  window  embrasures  stirred 
and  swelled  inward.  A  sudden  gust  of  air 
blew  out  his  lamp.  The  same  agent  of  Fate 
lifted  the  copy  of  the  letter,  and  bore  it 
through  the  open  door  out  into  the  hall ; 
thence  it  was  wafted  down  to  the  floor  beneath. 
He  folded  and  sealed  the  letter  in  the  dark- 
ness, determined  to  walk  down  to  the  post-office 
and  mail  it.  He  wanted  to  get  it  oft'  his  mind. 
He  intended  to  keep  his  promise  to  the  heiress. 
He  had  not  yet  asked  Irene  to  be  his  wife.  He 
had  simply  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  and  he 
had  spoken  the  truth.  Early  in  the  morning 
he  would  tell  her  that  he  was  eng-aaed  to  an- 
other.  Then  he  would  pack  up  his  things  and 
go  away. 


i2i  ^  Pttt^  a^onumt. 

As  he  passed  down  the  stairs  into  the  dimly- 
hghted  hall,  he  observed  little  black  Judas  sit- 
ting in  a  corner,  evidently  waiting  for  some  one. 
The  little  fellow  had  a  sheet  of  paper  in  his 
dusky  hands,  but  Morton  did  not  give  it  a 
thought.  After  he  had  passed  out  into  the 
yard,  he  looked  back  through  the  hall  and  saw 
a  light  in  Irene's  study.  Her  shadow  was  out- 
lined on  the  wall  of  the  little  room,  but  he  could 
not  see  her  face,  although  he  stood  for  several 
minutes,  waiting  and  hoping  to  do  so.  But 
even  her  shadow  affected  hmi ;  and  as  he 
lingered  under  the  white  arching  lintel  of  the 
tall  front  gate,  he  took  out  the  letter  to  Jean 
and  started  to  tear  it  up,  whilst  a  reckless  hap- 
piness shone  for  an  instant  on  his  face.  But 
something  stayed  his  fingers ;  he  hesitated  for 
a  moment,  then  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket, 
and  went  slowly  on  to  the  post-of&ce. 


^H«  ^onxmm  of  it  J>0utH«t'u  i^omu         125 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Whut  dis,  Miss  Inie  ?  " 

It  was  Judas's  low  voice  at  the  corner  of 
Irene's  desk.  He  held  a  type-written  sheet  be- 
fore her,  his  grimy  fingers  soiling  its  white- 
ness. 

She  recognized  it  at  a  glance  as  Morton's 
work.  He  had  once  brought  the  machine  down 
into  the  parlor  to  show  it  to  her.  The  first 
words  at  the  top  sent  a  hot  flush  to  her  face  : 

"  My  own  darling." 

She  put  out  her  white  hand  and  took  the 
paper. 

"  It  is  mine,"  she  said.  Then,  "  Where  did 
you  get  it,  Judas  ?  "  Her  voice  was  tremulous 
with  ineffable  delight. 

"  I  pick  it  up  out  deh  in  de  hall,  I  did.  Miss 
Inie.  It  flew  down  fumup-sta'rs,  I  reckon,  kase 
it  lit  flop  on  top  my  haid  ez  I  wuz  des  drappin' 
off  ter  sleep." 

"  It  is  mine,"  she  repeated,  and  she  waited 
an  instant  for  him  to  go  away. 

But  something  in  her  unusual  excitement  of 


126  g^  ^utc  d'onfc^.^dV. 

tone  and  her  facial  brightness  kept  him.  She 
forgot  Judas,  fastening  her  eager  eyes  again  on 
the  paper.  He  had  written  to  her  because  he 
had  not  had  the  courage  to  speak  plainly.  He 
had  called  her  "  darling."  But  as  she  read  on, 
the  color  left  her  cheeks,  the  light  of  joy  died 
out  of  her  eyes.  She  looked  like  a  statue  of 
old  ivory  crowned  with  tresses  of  living  gold. 
Her  head  sank  toward  the  letter  : 

"  My  own  Darling  : — How  glad  I  was  to  hear 
from  you  !  So,  by  your  uncle's  death  you  are 
now  even  more  wealthy.  Jean,  dear,  you  can't 
imagine  how  it  pains  me  to  feel  that  we  are  so 
unequal  m  the  eyes  of  the  world.  You  know 
I  have  always  felt  it,  and  I  shall  now  feel  it 
more  than  ever.  I  am  jealous  of  Count  Dartiey. 
I  know  he  is  in  love  with  you.  Just  think  of 
all  you  are  giving  up  for  a  poor  moneyless, 
strugglmg  mortal !  I  shall  not  be  here  long 
now.  I  shall  soon  return  to  you.  It  is  late  at 
night,  and  as  my  lamp  is  giving  a  poor  light, 
I  am  hammering  this  out  to  you  on  my  faithful 
machine.  You  will  pardon  me,  I  know.  I  will 
write  you  a  long  letter  to-morrow.     Good-^ "^ 

"  Yours  ever " 


(the  Homaufc  of  a  ^oitthcvn  (Toun.  127 

There  was  no  sio'iiature.  Irene  knew  that 
he  signed  his  type-written  letters  with  a  pen. 
She  looked  up.  Judas  was  standing  at  the 
end  of  the  desk,  his  black  face  glistening  in 
the  light,  his  eyes  holding  a  (piestioning  ex- 
pression. The  little  fellow  shrank  before  her 
stony  look,  and  took  his  hand  from  the  desk. 

"  Judas,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  that  was  very 
husky,  "  go  away.     Do  not  stay  here." 

His  bare  footsteps  slurred  like  weird,  echo- 
ing whispers  in  the  empty  hall,  and  then  died 
on  the  grass  of  the  lawn.  Irene's  head  sank 
lower  and  lower,  till  her  face  was  in  her  hands 
upon  the  desk.  She  remained  in  that  motion- 
less position  for  a  long  time. 

Morton,  returning,  came  up  the  walk,  and 
still  seeing  the  light  in  her  room,  paused  at 
the  veranda.  But  when  she  had  bowed,  her 
shadow  had  disappeared  from  the  wall,  and  he 
supposed  she  was  no  longer  there.  All  the 
way  from  the  post-of&ce  he  had  looked  forward 
to  seeing  at  least  her  shadow  again  before 
he  reth-ed.  And  yet  he  had  thought  that 
he  could  forget  her  in  a  few  months, 

Irene  heard  and  recognized  his  walk.  She 
raised  her  head,  and  listened  to  his  step  as  he 


128  %  itut^  (t^mtUmt, 

ascended  the  stairs.  She  looked  ten  years 
older.  The  creases  of  her  hands  had  moulded 
wrmkles  in  her  cheeks.  There  was  a  cold,  steady 
gleam  in  her  eyes.  She  rose  and  put  the  letter 
into  her  desk.  She  blew  out  her  lamp,  but 
remained  in  the  darkness  trying  to  collect  her 
thoughts.  Then  she  groped  back  to  the  desk, 
and,  securing  the  letter,  put  it  into  her  bosom. 
She  stood  still,  looking  out  through  the  hall  into 
the  moonlight  on  the  lawn.  Her  limbs  seemed 
to  have  lost  their  power,  and  she  dragged 
herself  with  painful  slowness  through  the 
house  and  upstairs  to  her  mother's  room. 
Mrs.  Stanton  had  been  worse  that  day.  The 
lamp  was  burning  low.  The  porcelain  lamp- 
shade threw  on  the  wall  a  huge  cone-shaped 
shadow  with  a  quivering  thread  of  light  through 
it.  The  girl  turned  up  the  wick  a  little,  and 
shrank  back  suddenly  as  the  oil  gurgled  through 
the  tubes. 

The  town  clock  was  striking  eleven.  Irene 
looked  at  her  mother.  The  thin,  white  features 
were  wrapped  in  sleep.  Going  to  the  mantel- 
piece, she  took  down  a  vial  containing  a  white 
powder,  and  shuddered  convulsively.  She 
glanced  across  the  room  to  her  mother's  shaded 


Sihc  ^lomnucc  of  a  Southern  ^oxm.         129 

face,  shook  out  a  little  heap  of  the  powder 
upon  a  piece  of  paper,  and  put  it  into  a  wine- 
glass on  the  table,  pom-ed  some  water  upon  it 
and  stirred  the  mixture  with  a  tiny  silver  spoon. 

The  moon  came  out  from  behind  a  cloud 
and  threw  her  pathetic  rays  through  a  window. 
Irene  held  the  thin  glass  between  her  and  the 
lamp  to  see  if  the  powder  had  dissolved ;  then 
she  softly  moved  to  her  mother's  bed.  Seat- 
ing herself  in  a  chair,  she  waited  for  Mrs. 
Stanton  to  wake.  In  a  few  moments  the  m- 
valid  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Mamma,  you  must  take  your  medicine 
now ;  the  doctor  said  at  half-past  ten,  and  it  is 
after  the  time." 

Mrs.  Stanton  smiled  faintly  and  fell  asleep 
again. 

The  girl  raised  the  gray  head  upon  her  arm. 
The  blue  eyes  opened  wider ;  a  dreamy  smile 
flitted  across  the  wrinkled  face.  Irene  held 
the  glass  to  the  half-parted  lips.  The  in- 
valid swallowed  unconsciously.  The  daughter 
turned  the  hot  pillow  over,  and  laid  her  mother 
gently  down.     Then  she  disrobed  herself. 

She  knelt  in  the  moonlight,  at  the  side  of 
the  bed,  looking  very  white  and  faint.     The 


130  ^  pwtc  itonit^^oL 

moments  passed.  Not  a  word  escaped  her 
lips.  Her  prayer  was  only  a  mute  sacrifice  of 
all  her  hopes,  aspirations  and  dreams,  which 
she  was  bringing  to  God's  altar  to  exchange  for 
hopeless  realities.  She  had  intended,  when  she 
knelt,  to  speak  to  Him  of  her  trouble,  but  she 
only  thought  over  it  all,  and  uttered  no  com- 
plaint. 

But  though  she  had  not  gone  to  God,  she 
did  want  to  confide  in  her  mother.  She  got  into 
bed  and  nestled  close  to  the  sleeper,  willing  to 
fancy  that  she  was  a  child  again.  But  her 
mother  was  in  a  deep,  unnatural  slumber,  and 
did  not  stir.  The  doctor  had  said  that  Mrs. 
Stanton  might  not  wholly  recover  her  reason- 
ing powers,  and,  as  Irene  thought  of  never 
having  her  mother's  entire  sympathy  in  her 
overwhelming  trouble,  the  last  spark  of  desire 
in  her  breast  expu-ed. 

She  twined  her  arms  with  inexpressible  ten- 
derness around  the  sleeper,  who  did  not  wake. 
The  girl's  grief  grew  wild.  She  raised  her 
face  over  her  mother's,  and  kissed  the  half- 
opened  mouth  gently,  so  as  not  to  disturb  her. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  darling !  "  she  said,  softly, 
"  you  must  love  me  ai  yoa  used  to  do,  for  you 


S^hc  '^omuuw  ot  H  (^outJv«(u  (tomi.  131 

are  all — all — aU  I  have  in  the  wide  world — oh, 
I  am  so  lonely !  " 

Mrs.  Stanton  moved  slightly. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked,  half  asleep. 

The  girl  did  not  speak,  but  lay  breathlessly 
still,  hoping  that  her  mother  would  not  fully 
awake. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  pet  ?  "  Mrs.  Stan- 
ton asked,  turning  on  her  side,  and  throwing 
her  arms  around  her  child. 

"  Nothing,  mamma  dear  ;  I  was — was  dream- 
ing; I  am  sorry  I  woke  you.  Go  back  to 
sleep.  I  am  all  right." 

Her  voice  faded  into  the  stillness.  She 
turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window  into  the 
peaceful  night.  She  lay  there  for  hours  in  a 
deathlike  calm,  not  daring  to  stu*  for  fear 
of  waking  the  slumberer — thinking,  thinking, 
thinking,  with  a  crushed  heart  m  her  breast. 
Toward  day,  when  the  sky  in  the  east  had 
grown  gray,  she  dropped  to  sleep. 


132  ^  Ittute  (towU^&ox* 


CHAPTER  XII. 

That  night  Edgar  Morton  hardly  closed  his 
eyes.  The  thought  of  giving  Irene  up  lay  like 
a  heavy  weight  on  his  breast. 

He  arose  early  in  the  morning  and  went 
immediately  down,  hoping  to  meet  her;  but 
he  saw  nothing  of  her,  and  his  hopes  sank  when 
Mr.  Stanton  told  hmi  that  Irene  seemed  a  little 
unwell,  and  was  loath  to  leave  her  mother's 
room.  Breakfast  over,  Morton  went  out,  feel- 
ing al)jectly  miserable.  Irene  was  not  well. 
He  had  never  felt  so  wretched.  Could  he  pos- 
sibly give  her  up — go  away,  to  see  her  no 
more,  and  let  her  think  him  dishonorable — 
untrue — unworthy  of  the  love  she  had  so  trust- 
ingly given  him  ? 

"  No  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  I'd  rather  die 
than  to  leave  her — I  love  her  more  than  my 
soul.  I  will  tell  her  everything,  and  beg  her 
forgiveness." 


He  strolled  on  over  the  dewy  grass  till  he 
came  to  the  summer-house  which  had  been 
rebuilt. 

The  grass  muffled  his  steps,  so  that  Irene, 
standing  behind  a  young  cedar,  her  hand  rest- 
ing on  the  framework  of  a  grape-vine,  did  not 
note  his  approach.  He  started  with  surprise  at 
seeing  her  so  unexpectedly,  and  went  toward 
her  impulsively.  But  when  she  turned  her 
face  to  him,  he  paled  to  the  lips.  He  stood 
before  her,  too  surprised  to  speak,  his  intended 
words  of  greeting  dying  before  they  reached 
his  lips. 

She  was  as  pale  as  death.  Lines  of  suffer- 
ing lay  about  her  tightened  mouth;  purple 
curves  shaded  her  great,  scornful  eyes.  She 
looked  beautiful,  imperious. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Dudley,"  said  she,  in 
such  a  calm,  unruffled  tone,  and  with  such  a 
stern,  unrelenting  stare,  that  his  heart  sank 
in  dismay. 

"  Your  father  told  me  you  were  unwell,"  he 
managed  to  stammer,  almost  dumb  from  dawn- 
ing fears  as  she  turned  her  awful  eyes  away 
for  an  instant ;  "  but  really  I  did  not  expect 
to  see " 


134  %  fttttf  (tmmm. 

"  To  see  me  looking  quite  so  unpresentable,'^ 
she  interpolated,  ironically ;  "  but  you  know, 
Mr.  Dudley,  that,  after  all,  we  women  are  only 
women ;  nothing  more.  Very  slight  things 
affect  us,  I  assure  you." 

"  Irene,"  he  gasped,  "  what  is  the  matter  ? 
Why " 

She  held  up  one  white  hand  with  an  im- 
perative gesture,  and  his  words  dwindled  away 
into  nothingness.  She  smiled  as  coldly  as  the 
reflection  of  sunlight  from  an  iceberg.  Her 
features  were  so  rigidly  ghastly  that  he  grew 
weak  in  fearful  suspense. 

"  Please  reserve  your  platitudes  for  some 
one  else,"  said  she,  with  so  sharp  a  tone,  and 
such  a  frozen  look,  that  he  read  unutter- 
able contempt  in  them  both.  "  I  do  not  feel 
in  the  humor  to  listen  to  them.  My  mother 
was  so  ill  last  night,  I — suppose  I  lost  too 
much  sleep  ;  I " 

"  Irene,  you  do  not  love  me  !  "  he  groaned. 
"  I  have  never  seen  you  this " 

"  I  do  not  love  you  !  "  she  broke  in,  coldly, 
contemptuously.  "  Well,  it  doesn't  matter  ! 
But  pardon  me — I  have  something  of  yours, 
which  I  want   to  return   to  you.     It   is   only  a 


itlhf  ^lomaiicc  of  u  ^outhcvw  ^om\.         135 

copy,  I  believe,  but  I  jiresume  that  all  systematic 
business  men  keep  some  sort  of  record  of  their 
correspondence,  and  you  may  wish  to  file  this. 
Men  are  very  progressive  in  the  present  day. 
Do  you  keep  a  copy  of  all  your  written  words 
of  love  ?  "  She  put  a  quivering  hand  into  her 
bosom  and  handed  him  a  crumpled  sheet  of 
paper.  His  face  showed  unguarded  surprise 
as  he  opened  and  recognized  it.  He  stared  at 
her  helplessly.  A  faint  glimmer  of  a  smile 
touched  her  rigid  lips  as  she  bent  and  plucked 
a  pink  rose  and  fastened  it  in  her  hair.  He 
was  about  to  speak,  but  she  raised  her  hand 
again. 

"  Not  a  word  !  "  A  look  of  obstinate  deter- 
mination emphasized  her  command.  "  If  you 
would  have  me  entertain  the  slightest  respect 
for  you,  do  not  attempt  to  deny  or  explain.  Say 
nothing.  I  Avill  not  listen.  I  never  Avant  to 
hear  it  mentioned.  I  loill  have  my  way  in 
this  !  " 

Had  his  life  depended  on  his  utterance  he 
could  not  have  spoken  at  that  instant.  Her 
great  suffering  did  not  escape  him,  as  she 
stood  trying  to  steady  herself,  her  fingers 
tightly  screwed  and  intertwistea. 


136  1^  l^^xiU  (^0\\it^0t 

"  I  have  but  one  wish,  Mr.  Dudley,  and  I 
know  that  you  will  grant  it.  I  feel,  despite 
what  has  passed,  that  you  possess  some 
true  gentlemanly  instincts.  I  should  dislike 
to  think  that  even  my  father,  who  likes  you, 
could  be  so  deceived  in  appearances.  I  am 
not  very  strong,  and  as  my  mother  is  seriously 
ill,   I  should  like  for   you    to    go    away.     Of 

course,  I  do  not  mean  from  G ;   but  there 

are  other  houses  in  town  where  you  can 
stay.  I  have  deliberated  over  this,  and  I  as- 
sure you  it  has  cost  me  a  struggle  to  speak  of 
it.  If  I  alone  were  concerned  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent ;  but  my  mother  needs  me  now  all  the  time, 
and  I  could  not  be — be  to  her  as  I  should, 
unless — unless  you  are  away.  You  may  think 
me  weak,  and  that  I  lack  pride  in  confessing 
so  much  now ;  but  I  have  never  met  a 
thorough  man  of  the  world  before,  and  I  little 
understand  how  a  society  woman  should  de- 
port herself  when  she  finds  herself — mistaken. 
Some  women  would,  no  doubt,  pretend  to  care 
nothing  about  it,  and  laugh  at  it  all  as  a  joke, 
but  I  cannot  affect  anything.  I  confess,  with- 
out shame,  that  I  loved  you.  Why  should  I 
deny  it  ?     It  is  all  over    vith  now.     If  you  will 


©he  ^omunrj  of  a  ^o\ttkrn  <^0um,        137 

go — at  once — I  can  do  my  duty  better.  I 
can  better  attend  to  my  mother's  needs  when 
you  are  not  here  to  remmd  me  how  very  child- 
like I  have  been.  I  think  you  will  understand, 
and — and  will  grant  my  wish.     That  is  all." 

She  gathered  up  her  skirt  with  a  poor,  trem- 
bling hand,  and  turned  from  him.  Had  his 
heart  been  torn  out  before  his  eyes  and  ground 
beneath  her  feet  he  could  not  have  suffered 
more. 

"  Irene,  have  mercy  !  "  he  groaned,  his  eyes 
dilating  with  the  wild  passion  of  his  yearning  ; 
and  he  flung  himself  on  his  knees  upon  the 
damp  grass. 

But  she  did  not  look  round.  He  rose  and 
tottered  along  a  few  steps  after  her,  but  the 
vines  and  low-hanging  foliage  hid  her  droop- 
ing figure  ;  he  sank  upon  a  bench  as  weak  as 
an  infant. 

"  Irene  !  Irene!  "  he  muttered,  "  have  mercy ! 
Have  mercy ! " 

He  sat  very  still  for  several  moments,  try- 
ing to  collect  his  thoughts.  Something  told 
him  that  he  was  powerless  to  change  matters. 
Had  he  confessed  all  before  she  read  the 
letter,  she   might,  in   time,  have  forgiven  him, 


138  i  ^utc  (!^(Jttf<!iSi^i)i'. 

but  now  a  full  explanation  would  only  make 
her  hate  him  the  more.  Something  whispered 
to  him  :  "  Go  away  at  once.  She  does  not 
know  who  you  are.  She  can  never  know.  In 
the  future,  by  the  aid  of  Jean  Wharton's 
money  and  your  genius  you  will  become  great 
and  she  will  read  your  works  with  admiration, 
and  never  suspect  that  she  once  knew  Edgar 
Morton.  Go,  for  you  can  never  win  back  her 
confidence  and  love." 

A  mocking-bird  was  piping  sweetly  in  a  tall 
poplar  tree.  The  red  brick  of  the  old  mansion 
showed  through  the  foliage,  and  beyond  rose 
the  serried  pines  of  the  hill,  clearly  outlined 
against  the  sky.  Morton  rose,  feeling  as  one 
does  after  a  long  illness,  and  slowly  made  his 
way  across  the  lawn.  He  staggered  against  a 
tree,  shaking  down  a  shower  of  dew  into  his  face. 
The  veranda  and  the  hall  were  empty.  An  air 
of  solitude  pervaded  everything.  No  sound 
was  heard  save  an  occasional  clatter  of  dishes 
from  the  kitchen.  It  was  almost  a  relief  to 
see  Aunt  Del  come  out  into  the  yard  and  hang 
a  rug  across  a  side-fence  to  sun.  He  went  up- 
stairs into  his  room  and  threw  himself  on  his  bed. 

His  throat  was  dry,  his  brain  on  fire.     Then, 


Q^ht  ^onmm  oi  a  Southern  (Toun.  139 

all  at  once,  lie  realized  that  he  had  no  right  to 
be  there,  since  Irene  had  asked  him  to  go.  He 
got  up  and  went  to  his  mirror.  He  could 
hardly  believe  that  the  ghastly  image  was  his 
own.  He  put  his  chin  upon  his  quivering 
hands,  with  his  face  close  to  the  glass,  and 
looked  at  himself  steadily.  Presently  he  went 
to  the  table  and  wrote  to  Irene : 

"  Miss  Stanton, — I  have  sacrificed  the  right 
to  call  myself  your  friend.  I  have  deceived  you 
in  some  things,  but  as  I  hope  for  immortality,  I 
love  you  with  all  my  soul.  Let  me  see  you 
only  once  to  confess  all.  I  have  been  weak, 
but  I  love  you,  and  cannot  live  without  your 
for^-iveness." 

He  did  not  sign  it.  He  did  not  want  to  use 
his  assumed  name  again,  and  he  preferred  to 
tell  her  his  own  to  her  face.  Looking  from  the 
window  he  saw  Judas  playing  in  the  yard  below, 
and  called  to  the  boy  to  come  up.  He  met  the 
slow-moving  dwarf  on  the  stairs,  and  gave  him 
the  note  to  take  to  his  young  mistress.  Morton 
paced  the  floor  in  half-frenzied  impatience, 
counting  the  seconds  till  he  heard  the  boy's 
bare  feet  on  the  steps.     He  went  half-way  down 


140  gi  gtutf  (^onitmx, 

the  stairs  to  meet  him.  The  note  was  his  own, 
returned ;  but,  written  on  its  margin  in  Irene's 
clear  hand,  he  read  : 

"  I  can  only  renew  my  request.  I  will  never 
see  you  again.  I  have  told  my  father  that 
you  are  called  away.  This  is  my  only  and 
last  request,  and,  believe  me,  I  tremble  when  I 
think  that  you  may  delay  in  granting  it.  I  feel 
that  I  have  a  right  to  make  it,  even  to  demand 
your  compliance.  Irene  Stanton." 

Judas  stood  looking  at  him  with  inquisitive 
eyes,  holding  a  top-string  between  his  shining 
teeth  and  one  of  his  flat  feet  resting  idly  upon 
the  other. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Judas,"  said  Morton, 
huskily. 

He  almost  fell  into  the  chair  at  the  table. 
His  hand  trembled  as  if  it  were  palsied,  as  he 
wrote  : — 

"  I  am  all  in  the  wrong.  I  go  at  once.  I 
hope  soon  to  be  able  to  justify  myself — in  part, 
at  least.  But  I  will  not  trouble  you  now. 
Good-bye." 


©he  ^lumawcc  of  i\  ^outhtvu  itoiin,  141 

He  deliberated  for  an  instant,  as  to  wliether 
he  should  sign  his  own  name,  then  he  sent  it 
unsigned,  telling  himself  that  he  would  soon 
write  her  a  full  confession. 

Two  hours  later  he  stood  on  the  veranda  bid- 
ding Mr.  Stanton  good-bye.  Tony  and  another 
negro  were  putting  his  luggage  into  a  dray. 
A  group  of  negroes  stood  at  the  corner  of  the 
house.  They  all  looked  sad.  Morton  had 
few  words  to  say  as  he  went  among  them  and 
shook  their  honest  hands.  Tears  were  in  the 
eyes  of  the  older  ones,  for  they  all  loved 
him. 

"  Marse  Dudley,  suh,"  said  Aunt  Del,  as  she 
wiped  her  chubby  hands  on  her  apron,  "avc  is 
gwine  ter  miss  you  er  mighty  heap.  De  ain't 
been  one  nice  white  gen'man  yer  in  er  long  time 
lak  you,  suh,  en  I'm  er  gwine  sen'  up  er  prayer 
fur  you  night  en  mornin'.  You  is  in  trouble. 
I  kin  see  dat ;  en  ef  you  is  los'  any  yo'  folks, 
I'm  mighty  sorry  fer  you,  en  Gawd  bless 
you!" 

Mr.  Stanton's  kind  old  eyes  glistened  a  little 
as  he  went  down  the  long  walk  at  Morton's 
side. 


14:2  '^  pute  (towU^m, 

"  Mr.  Dudley,  we  regret  very  much  to  lose 
you,"  he  said,  with  deep  feeling.  "We  have 
come  to  regard  you  as  one  of  our  circle,  you 
know,  and  we  shall  miss  you.  You  must  not 
forget  us,  and  must  come  again  to  see  us  ;  rest 
assured,  you  will  always  be  welcome." 

In  his  excitement  Edgar  had  forgotten  that 
he  had  not  paid  for  his  last  month's  board. 
And  when  he  suddenly  remembered  it,  and  held 
the  money  tov/ard  Mr.  Stanton,  the  old  man  put 
uj)  his  hand  to  push  it  back. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  let  us  consider  you  as  our 
guest  for  this  last  month.  I  should  like  to  have 
it  so.  We  have  enjoyed  many  a  talk  together. 
At  my  age  I  meet  few  men  who  interest  me  as 
you  have  done." 

Morton's  face  paled  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 
He  almost  forced  the  money  into  the  old  man's 
palm.     His  tone  surprised  Mr.  Stanton. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  could  not !  I  really  could  not !  " 
he  gasped. 

"Well,  well,  have  it  your  way,"  said  Mr. 
Stanton.  "  Good-bye.  My  wife  sends  her  best 
wishes,  and  regrets  that  she  is  not  ^vell  enough 
to  see  you  before  you  go.  But  you  will  leave  me 
your  address,  I  might  want  to  write,  you  know." 


ahc  ^Aomaucc  of  a  <^outhcvn  cToun.  143 

Without  thinking-  of  what  he  was  doing-, 
Morton  wrote  it  on  the  paper  Mr.  Stanton 
held  toward  him. 

"  Then  you  go  to  New  York  ?  "  asked  the 
old  man,  surprised. 

Morton's  eyes  fell ;  his  trouble  had  been  so 
great  that  he  had  lost  sight  of  the  part  he  was 
playing. 

"  Yes,  that  will  be  my  address,"  he  stam- 
mered, turning  away. 

As  he  went  down  the  long  street,  Edgar 
turned  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  place  which 
he  had  learned  to  love  so  dearly.  Everything 
was  absolutely  still  about  the  house ;  the 
branches  of  the  trees  were  motionless.  Aunt 
Del  stood  in  the  kitchen  door,  a  huge  dish- 
pan  under  her  arm^  looking-  after  him.  Little 
Judas  sat  on  an  inverted  wash-tub  in  the  yard, 
s^vinging  his  feet  back  and  forth.  The  veranda 
was  empty.  He  saw  the  very  vines  and  trellis 
behind  which  he  had  held  Irene  in  his  arms ; 
and,  as  the  old  house  vanished  among-  the  man- 
tling trees,  he  felt  like  a  homeless  wanderer  on 
the  face  of  the  earth. 

To  avoid  meeting  any  one  he  knew,  he  went 
to  the  station  by  way  of  a  back  street.     The 


144  ^  Put?  iBonU^^ifV, 

continual  blur  before  his  eyes  was  so  blinding 
that  he  could  hardly  see  his  way.  As  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  train,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
was  leaving  his  very  soul  behind  him. 

When  Mr.  Stanton  turned  back  into  the 
house,  he  found  Irene,  reclining  on  a  lounge 
in  the  sitting-room.  Noticing  that  the  curtains 
of  a  window  looking  toward  the  town  were 
moving  slightly,  though  not  the  faintest  breeze 
was  astir,  the  idea  struck  him  that  she  had  been 
at  the  window  and  had  suddenly  thrown  herself 
on  the  lounge  on  hearing  his  footsteps. 

"  Irene,  pet,"  said  he,  gently — and  he  drew 
a  chair  near  the  lounge  and  sat  down, — "  I 
am  sorry  Dudley  has  gone.  He  certainly  loves 
you,  my  child,  with  all  his  heart.  I  really 
think  you  ought  to  have  suspected  it  all  along, 
and  to  have  broken  with  him  before  this,  since 
you  have  evidently  decided  not  to  accept 
him." 

She  looked  up  into  her  father's  eyes  and 
tried  to  smile  indifferently. 

"  Papa,"  she  answered  him,  pitifully  smooth- 
ing 'out  the  crumpled  skirt  of  her  gown,  and 
trying  valiantly  to  steady  her  twitching  lips — 
"  papa  dear,  you  men  expect  so  much  of  us. 


(^\\t  2^omattcc  ot  a  ^outhevu  iToun.  145 

I  assure  you  that  I  acquainted  Mr.  Dudley  with 
the  state  of  my  feelings  as  soon  as  I  learned 
what  his  intentions  were  with  regard  to  me. 
You  see  " — and  for  an  instant  she  gripped  her 
throat  with  a  quivering  hand, — "you  see,  he 
did  not  let  me  know — at  once." 

"  And  you  did  not  love  him,  then,  dear  ?  " 
said  the  old  man,  bending  over  her  and  toying 
Avith  the  hail'  about  her  brow. 

A  cold  sweat  stood  on  her  face.  She  tried 
to  force  the  smile  to  her  mouth  again,  but  only 
a  pitiful  grimace  came  to  her  distorted  feat- 
ures. She  flung  up  her  arms  suddenly  and 
drew  the  white  head  down,  to  hide  her  strug- 
gle ;  but  when  his  lips  touched  hers,  she  tight- 
ened her  arms  around  his  neck  and  burst  into 
a  passion  of  tears. 


10 


146  gi  ^m  €mim»K* 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  winds  of  September,  a  trifle  more  de- 
structive than  those  of  August,  were  cutting  off 
some  of  the  red  and  gold  leaves  from  the  trees 
that  shaded  the  Stanton  residence.  The  grapes 
were  ripe  and  purple,  the  fig-trees  laden  with 
sun-cracked  and  honey-coated  fruit,  when  Mrs. 
Stanton  died. 

It  is  painful  to  stand  by  the  bedside  of  a  loved 
one  and  see  a  life  pass  away ;  to  see  dear  eyes 
lose  the  light  of  recognition  in  the  strange,  new 
current  of  inexplicable  change ;  to  bend  long- 
ingly, awe-stricken  with  a  sense  of  profound 
mystery,  over  the  last  of  what  represented  so 
much  to  our  bereaved  senses ;  to  feel,  in  the 
cold,  irresponsive  hand,  that  it  is  mere  mockery 
to  turn  thither  for  solace. 

Irene  stood  at  her  mother's  death-bed  with 
her  father  and  aunt,  a  bewildered  stare  of 
agony  in  her  eyes.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed 
were  the  negroes.     Aunt  Del,  her  head  tur- 


ithc  ^omuufc  oi  a  <^outlu'vu  (lowil         147 

bailed  in  white;  Uncle  Tony,  stick  in  hand, 
stood  by  Uncle  Rastiis.  Aunt  Millie  held  the 
hands  of  two  little  colored  gu-ls.  Judas  sat  on 
a  hassock,  his  hands  crossed  in  his  lap,  his 
pockets  bulging  with  forgotten  playthings,  an 
unfathomable  expression  on  his  face. 

A  harrowing,  breathless  moment  of  suspense, 
then  all  was  over.  Tears  had  stolen  from  Aunt 
Del's  eyes  and  lay  sparkling  on  her  dusky  cheeks. 
She  moved  in  a  mute,  sHpshod  way  among  the 
children,  and  signed  to  them  to  go  quietly  down 
the  stairs.  Uncle  Tony  hobbled  away  with  a 
soft  tread  that  was  pathetic. 

Mrs.  Livingston  led  her  tearless  niece  into  an 
adjoining  room  and  sat  down  beside  her.  She 
pillowed  the  troubled  head  upon  her  breast, 
but  spoke  not  a  word.  Mr.  Stanton,  who  had 
lingered  a  moment  over  his  wife's  body, 
turned  from  the  room.  He  came  to  Irene  and 
held  out  his  arms  to  her  in  mute  appeal.  She 
went  to  him.  He  did  not  press  her  to  his 
breast  as  she  thought  he  would,  but  held  hor 
face  between  his  hands,  and  gazed  searchingly 
into  it  for  a  moment,  then,  releasing  her,  went 
quickly  from  the  room. 

"He  always  said  I  looked  like  mamma,"  said 


Irene,  as  her  aunt  took  her   into   her   arms 
again. 

Then  she  hid  her  face,  for  she  thought  she 
was  going  to  shed  tears,  but  she  did  not. 

After  her  mother's  death,  Irene  never  spoke 
of  her  absent  lover  to  her  father,  and  tried  to 
put  him  altogether  out  of  her  thoughts.  Her 
memory  of  him  was  sorrow-clouded — fraught 
with  humiliating  pain.  She  associated  him 
with  the  life  that  had  come  before  her  greatest 
grief,  believing,  poor  girl !  that  all  her  weight  of 
woe  was  caused  by  the  loss  of  her  mother.  In 
everything  about  the  house  she  found  the 
reminder  of  a  past  joy.  It  gave  her  some 
comfort  to  minister  to  her  father's  wants,  but 
her  pale  face  and  sunken  cheeks  still  testified 
to  the  anguish  within. 

While  Mr.  Stanton  was  at  his  place  of  busi- 
ness she  felt  the  awful  solitude  of  her  life  with 
redoubled  force.  Soon  financial  adversity 
added  its  sting  to  the  grief  of  the  inmates  of 
the  stricken  house.  Since  his  wife's  death 
the  old  man  had  made  some  new  mistakes  in 
investments,  and  suddenly  found  himself  on 
the  brink  of  ruin. 


She  ^omaufe  ot  a  ^outhet'tt  ^omi.        149 

Irene  read  his  trouble  in  his  eyes,  and  cud- 
gelled her  young  brain  to  devise  a  plan  to 
aid  him.  One  day  it  flashed  upon  her  to  try 
to  sell  some  of  her  literary  work.  With  a 
vigor  born  of  despair,  she  set  to  work  to  write  a 
novel.  She  put  her  whole  soul  into  the  work. 
She  made  a  few  of  her  characters  experience 
something  like  the  grief  she  felt  while  writing 
the  story,  and  gave  to  others  the  joy  which  had 
been  her  portion  in  the  past.  When  her  work 
was  finished,  something  told  her  that  she  had 
done  well,  that  there  were  sympathetic  souls  in 
the  world  who  would  read  her  story  with  some 
of  the  feeling  that  had  dimmed  her  eyes  as 
she  wrote  it. 

The  day  when  she  carefully  tied  up  the 
little  packet,  and  secretly  took  it  to  the  post- 
office,  was  an  important  one  in  her  life.  She 
sent  it,  as  chance  would  have  it,  to  Lang  & 
Princeton,  New  York.  That  night  at  the  sup- 
per-table she  searched  her  father's  care-worn 
face  anew,  and  in  the  quiet  of  her  study,  a 
few  moments  later,  she  earnestly  prayed  that 
through  the  work  she  had  just  sent  away  she 
might  be  able  to  aid  him. 

The  nesrroes  were  not  unaware  of  the  new 


150  3t  gtutc  itotii(^M\ 

cares  which  had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  their 
master,  and  were  deeply  sympathetic,  though 
Tony  was,  perhaps,  the  truest  and  most  con- 
cerned of  all.  He  often  bewailed  his  master's 
misfortune,  and  tried  to  devise  a  plan  to  as- 
sist him. 

One  day  the  old  darkey  saw  a  lawyer  enter 
the  house  and  remain  in  close  conference  with 
his  master  for  several  hours,  and  he  hung 
about  the  front  veranda  very  much  distressed 
till  he  saw  the  visitor  depart.  He  had  heard 
it  whispered  among  the  negroes  that  the  old 
homestead  was  about  to  pass  into  alien  hands. 
After  the  lawyer  had  gone,  Tony  Hmped  across 
the  yard  into  his  cottage.  He  went  to  an 
old  chest  in  a  corner,  unfastened  a  key  from  a 
string  round  his  neck,  and,  unlocking  the  mass- 
ive padlock,  he  slowly  raised  the  lid.  He  took 
out  a  small  tobacco-bag  almost  filled  with  coin, 
and  shook  it  till  the  contents  jingled,  and 
smiled  and  slyly  chuckled  to  himself.  He  turned 
aAvay,  leaving  the  chest  unlocked  for  the  first 
time  for  years,  went  back  to  his  master's  house, 
and  slowly  made  his  way  through  kitchen  and 
dining-room,  his  crooked  leg  swinging  in  a  dis- 
jointed fashion  from   side  to   side,   his  heavy 


(L^hc  itomanrc  of  n  ^outhfm  itoyvw,        lol 

cane  thimipino-  on  the  floor.  Aunt  Del  and 
Aunt  Millie  looked  at  liim,  saw  his  money-bag, 
and  wondered.  On  reaching-  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room,  where  Mr.  Stanton  sat  at  the  fire, 
smoking  a  pipe,  having  given  up  the  luxury  of 
cigars,  Tony  rapped  gently. 

"  Come  in!  " 

"  Well,"  as  Tony,  shame  faced,  tattered  hat 
in  hand,  entered,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Marster,"  in  trembling  notes,  "  marster,  I 
is  yer  um  all  talk  en  talk  'bout  you  is  gwine 
hatter  'linquish  dis  yer  home -place  en  all — en — 
en,  marster,  'sense  me," — tears  were  in  the  blue- 
black  eyes  beneath  the  stubbly  brows — "  but, 
marster,  I  kin  stan'  mos'  anything  'cep'  dat." 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?  "  the  master  answered, 
with  a  sigh  from  his  heart.  "  Adversities  must 
come  to  us  all,  Tony  ?  " 

"  Marster," — and  Tony  shook  his  bag  of 
money  gently — "  Marster,  I  is  been  layin'  by  er 
lill  fer  er  long  time,  mighty  nigh  ever  sence 
de  wall.  I  des  got  in  dis  lill  poke  edzactly 
forty-fo'  dollars  en  fifteen  cents.  En,  marster, 
I  want  you  ter  tek  it  ter  he'p  you  out,  suh." 

Mr.  Stanton  looked  up  at  the  black  face 
with  a  sudden  start,  then  turned  his  head  away. 


152  i^  Putf  (!^anff,5i^af. 

"  Hang  your  impudence,  you  black  rogue  ! " 
he  exclaimed,  facing  the  old  darkey  and  trying 
to  pretend  to  be  angry.  "  I'll  thrash  you  if 
you  come  to  me  with  any  of  your  sympathy  ! 
I  don't  want  your  money  !  " 

Not  a  quiver  disturbed  Tony's  gaunt  face, 
nor  did  he  lower  so  much  as  the  breadth  of  a 
hair  his  outstretched  hand,  in  whose  clutch  lay 
the  coin-filled  tobacco-bag. 

"  Des  forty-fo'  dollars  an'  fifteen  cents  !  "  he 
repeated,  firmly — "  some  dimes,  some  nickels, 
er  few  Mexicans  wuth  eighty-five  cents  a-piece, 
mebby  mo',  er  five-dollar  gol'  piece,  suh,  en  er 
good  many  halves  en  dollars,  en  so  on ;  en  what 
is  mo',  Mr.  Linkum  owes  me  yit  fer  de  white 
shote  he  got  dat  time." 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  few  moments.  It 
was  a  picture  worthy  of  the  brush  of  highest 
genius.  Tears  stole  into  the  white  man's  eyes, 
humbleness  and  entreaty  lay  in  the  black's. 
The  master  smiled  in  an  unnatural,  poorly- 
affected  way  as  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for 
his  handkerchief. 

"  Put  up  your  money,  Tony,  you  old  thief. 
Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  he  laughed,  through  his  tear: ; 
"  you  know  I  always   told  you  you   could  not 


®hc  |tomatt«  oi  a  Southern  Zom\,         loS 

keep  from  stealing  chickens  ;  but  now,  you 
black  rascal,  you  are  trying  to  get  me  to  go  in 
cahoot  with  you,  and  share  your  spoils.  No, 
siree.  Bob  !  you  can't  work  that  trick  on 
me,  old  fellow  ;  I  wouldn't  have  your  chicken 
money.  Besides — "  he  grew  very  serious, 
lowered  his  voice,  and  wiped  his  eyes  sur- 
reptitiously, "  besides,  I  don't  need  it.  I've 
got  a  month  to  raise  that  Httle  amount  in,  and 
I  will  get  it  somehow,  by  hook  or  crook.  Now 
go,  Tony." 

The  old  negro  seemed  to  deliberate  with 
himself  whether  he  should  say  anything  more. 
He  raised  his  money-bag  a  little  and  shook 
it  slightly,  but  that  was  all. 

"  Yes,  suh  ;  yes,  suh,"  he  said,  as  he  began 
to  withdraw. 

"  Tony  !  "  The  old  negro  was  softly  closing 
the  door  behind  him. 

"  Suh  ?  yes,  marster  !  "  and  a  black,  grinning 
face  was  thrust  in  at  the  door,  and  the  money- 
bag expectantly  extended. 

"  Tony,  you  said  once  that  you  wanted  a 
horse  to  hitch  to  that  little  wagon  of  yours 
with  the  '  whopity '  wheels,  as  you  call  them. 
I've  got  that  slow  old  plug,  Jack,  in  the  stable, 


154  |^  putc  C'onff.^.iov. 

and  have  no  earthly  use  for  him.  Tony,  con- 
sider him  a  gift  from  me.  I  don't  approve  of 
your  thieving-  traits,  you  old  rascal,  but  the 
horse  is  yours,  you  hear  ?  " 

"  No,  suh,  I  don't  yer  ;  I  don't  want  no 
hoss  !  "  vigorously,  almost  indignantly  ;  "  who 
say  I  is  want  er  hoss?  I  don't  need  no  hoss  : 
en  w'at's  mo',  I  ain't  g-wine  hat  no  hoss,  now 
you  yer  me  once  en  f er  all !  Shuli  !  what  is  got 
in  yer,  I  wonder  ?" 

Tony  tottered  off  home,  muttering  to  himself, 
and  the  old  white  man  bent  over  the  fire,  and 
held  a  damp,  steaming  hand  over  the  hot 
ashes. 


©he  2^aman(*  of  h  ^outhcvu  £oau.  l^f) 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  he  reached  New 
York,  Morton  called  to  see  Jean.  His  mind 
was  filled  with  deep  melancholy,  and  a  burthen 
of  unspeakable  remorse  rested  upon  him.  He 
wanted  to  write  to  Irene,  but  would  not  do  so 
till  he  could  tell  her  of  his  release  from  his 
promise  to  the  heiress.  He  had  determined  to 
tell  Jean  all,  and  to  appeal  to  her  for  advice  in 
his  trouble. 

''  Oh,  my  ! "  Jean  exclaimed  in  dismay,  as 
she  entered  the  drawing-room  to  greet  him. 
"  Can  this  be  you  ?  Wh — why,  Edgar,  have 
you  been  ill  ?  " 

Then,  before  he  could  reply,  she  went  into 
the  hall  to  tell  the  servant  that  she  was  at 
home  to  no  one.  She  returned  with  a  ofrave 
face  and  sat  down  near  where  he  was  standino-. 
She  did  not  seem  to  notice  that  he  had  not 
kissed  her,  and  that  his  hand-shake  lacked  its 


15(>  ^  %\U\it  (^mtt^m, 

usual  warmth.  She  was  looking  sadly  into 
his  thin,  wan  face. 

"  Have  you  been  ill,  Edgar  ?  "  she  repeated, 
anxiously. 

"  No,"  said  he,  awkwardly,  "  but  I  am  rather 
tired  from  my  journey." 

Silence  filled  the  room.  She  did  not  look 
at  him  with  her  old  directness.  She  was 
evidently  not  satisfied  with  his  reply  to  her 
question. 

"  Edgar,"  said  she  presently,  in  a  tone  that 
went  to  his  heart,  "  you  are  in  trouble ;  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  but  it  must  be  great.  Tell  me 
the  straight  truth,  no  matter  what  it  is — no 
matter  if  it  separates  us  for  the  future.  TeU 
me  everything  !  You  are  too  true,  too  great  by 
nature,  to  deceive  me  in  anything — tell  me  !  " 

He  looked  down  into  her  eyes.  They  had 
once  seemed  unattractive  to  him,  but  they  now 
shone  with  rare  beauty  of  soul.  His  heart 
felt  lighter. 

"  Tell  me  all,"  she  went  on  ;  "  keep  back 
nothing ;  I  tell  you  you  could  not  surprise 
me  now  !  " 

He  was  standing  near  the  fireplace.  Amid  a 
tangle  of  evergreens,  a  mock  fire  threw  a  blood- 


red  glow  on  to  the  tiles  at  his  feet.  He  leaned 
against  the  cabinet-mantel,  and,  as  she  spoke, 
quivered  from  head  to  foot.  He  wanted  to  tell 
her  how  he  was  suffering,  and  that  he  had 
made  a  mistake  in  promising  to  marry  her.  He 
looked  down  at  her  ;  her  hands  were  crossed ; 
she  was  waiting  anxiously  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Jean,"  he  said,  "  I  once  told  you  that  I 
loved  you " 

"  And  you  do  not  now,  Edgar ;  well,  go  on," 
she  said,  tightening  her  lips.  "  Perhaps  you 
never  did ;  we  often  do  not  understand  our- 
selves. But  we  will  -psiss  that ;  tell  me  all — 
everything  !  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  reading 
her  kind,  womanly  face  Avith  rising  hopes,  he 
concluded  : 

"  No,  I  do  not  love  you — as — as  I  should,  to 
make  you  perfectly  happy." 

Rid  of  his  burden,  he  stood  looking  at  her 
with  a  glance  that  was  most  pitiful. 

"  Edgar,"  said  she,  making  room  for  him  at 
her  side,  on  the  divan,  "  come,  sit  by  me." 

He  obeyed. 
■    "  Now,  tell  me  all  about  it,  from   the  first 
moment  you  saw  her.     She  is  Southern,  and 


158  g^  Pttte  H^owtt^m, 

beautiful,  and — and  I  know  she  is  clever,  and 
that  you  both  are  congenial  in  your  tastes." 

He  tried  to  smile  in  his  old  deceptive  way, 
but  the  effort  was  a  failure. 

"  She  is  all  that  and  more,"  he  answered, 
abashed. 

He  said  nothing  more  for  several  minutes. 
But  as  the  true  woman  at  his  side  continued 
to  encourage  him,  as  kindly  and  tenderly  as  a 
sister  might  have  done,  he  told  her  the  whole 
story,  and  reserved  nothing. 

"  Edgar,"  said  she,  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh, 
when  he  had  finished — "  Edgar,  you  never 
could  have  loved  me  that  way,  and  I  am  afraid 
I  could  never  care  for  you  as  I  fancy  she  does. 
I  confess  that  I  have  been  very  foolish.  To  be 
perfectly  truthful,  I  acknowledge  that  I  did 
not  love  you  with  all  my  heart.  I  think  I  was 
interested  in  you  more  than  in  any  other  man, 
because  I  was  so  proud  of  you,  and  hoped — 
fancied — that  you  could  love  me  as  ideally  as 
your  heroes  love  in  your  stories."  She  was 
silent  a  moment,  looking  thoughtfully  at  the 
carpet,  then  she  said  :  "  It  would  have  been  a 
great  mistake  for  us  both.  You  must  marry 
Jier..    I  would  give  all  I  possess  to  enjoy,  even 


^'hc  Romance  ot  a  ^outUcvu  iLoixn,         159 

for  a  brief  period,  such  happiness  as  is  in  store 
for  you  two." 

His  face  took  on  a  radiance  that  made  him 
look  ahnost  boyish.  He  threw  his  arms  around 
her  and  kissed  her  impulsively. 

"  Now,  that  will  do,"  she  said,  quietly,  and  di-ew 
herself  aAvay.  "  Once  is  enough,  you  great 
boy  ;  but,  then,  we  are  such  good  friends." 

Later  in  the  evening  she  spoke  of  the  Count, 
and  shyly  confessed  that  she  really  liked  her 
new  lover ;  he  had  been  so  kind,  and  was  such 
a  perfect  gentleman.  He  was  even  then  press- 
ing his  suit. 

"  You  know,  Edgar,"  she  said,  "  I  did  not 
want  to  tell  him  of  our  engagement,  so  what 
was  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  he  could  make  you  happy  ?  " 

She  smiled  and  blushed  slightly.  "  I  enjoy 
his  society  very  much;  he  is  fond  of  many 
thmofs  that  I  like." 

Before  he  slept  that  night,  Edgar  wrote  a 
long  letter  to  Irene.  He  confessed  everything. 
He  told  her  his  real  name ;  that  he  had  been 
tempted  to  marry  a  wealthy  woman,  but,  having 
met  her  and  loved  her  with  all  his  soul,  that  he 
could  never  think  of  anyone  else  as  his  wife. 


160  ^  Pute  (^rnUmx, 

Then  he  closed  by  saying  that  Miss  Wharton 
had  willingly  released  him  from  his  engage- 
ment and  was  to  marry  another,  and  implored 
her  to  write  him  her  forgiveness. 

Ten  days  passed,  and  no  reply  came.  She 
despised  him,  he  said  to  himself;  she  would 
never  forgive  him. 

One  day  his  landlady  called  him  to  give 
him  his  mail. 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Morton,"  said  she,  as  he 
was  turning  away,  "  can  you  tell  me  who  Mr. 
Marshal  Dudley  is  ?  There  is  a  letter  here  with 
that  name  upon  it.  It  may  be  for  some  one 
who  intends  to  stop  with  us." 

For  an  instant  Morton  lost  his  self-pos- 
session. 

"  It  is  for  me,  Mrs.  Long,"  he  said,  excitedly. 
Then  he  looked  very  confused. 

"  For  you  ?  "  asked  the  woman,  surprised. 

"  Yes,"  pulling  himself  together.  "  Of  course, 
it  is  not  my  name,  but  I  used  it  once.  The  let- 
ter must  be  for  me." 

Mrs.  Long  went  into  another  room  and 
brousrht  it  to  him. 

"  Oh,  you  authors  !  "  she  exclaimed  play- 
fully, shaking  the  letter  at  him.     "  You  are  a 


©he  |lomau«  of  a  ^outhcrw  t^omx.  161 

queer  lot.  This  is  one  o£  your  tricks,  I'm 
sure  ! 

He  took  the  letter  and  turned  up  the  stairs. 
Never  had  the  flight  seemed  so  long-.  In  his 
impatience  even  the  latch  of  his  chamber  door 
seemed  to  be  obstinate.     The  envelope  bore  the 

post-mark,  "  G ,"  and  on  its  face,  in  Irene's 

characteristic  hand,  he  read  "Marshal Dudley." 

"  Her  answer  ! "  he  ejaculated,  his  heart  in  his 
mouth.  No,  he  reflected,  it  could  not  be  a  reply 
to  his  confession,  else  she  would  not  have  ad- 
dressed it  to  his  assumed  name.  He  stood 
motionless  at  a  window  and  held  the  envelope 
in  his  hand,  wondering  what  it  contained,  yet 
dreading  to  know.  He  turned  the  letter  over, 
taking  heart  as  he  felt  its  thickness.  If  unfavor- 
able, why  had  she  used  so  much  paper  ?  Ner- 
vously he  broke  the  seal.  A  blur  came  before 
his  eyes.  She  had  recognized  his  handwriting 
and  returned  his  letter  unopened. 

Through  all  that  long  miserable  day  he  did  not 
leave  his  room.  He  turned  a  hundred  times 
to  look  at  the  envelope  she  had  directed.  He 
sat  listlessly  at  his  window  and  looked  out  at 
the  brown  walls  opposite,  and  at  the  people  pass- 
ing by.    When  night  came  he  went  out  j  he  felt 


162  ^  putf  (!!>mxU$m\ 

as  if  he  could  hardly  breathe  Indoors.  He 
walked  through  the  streets  for  hours — walked 
till  the  noise  of  hoofs  and  wheels  was  hushed. 
Then  he  went  back  to  his  room,  as  miserable  as 
ever  man  was.  Irene  despised  him.  She  would 
never  give  him  a  chance  to  ask  forgiveness,  she 
who  had  once  given  him  her  young  heart  so 
trustingly. 

Several  days  passed.  The  few  friends  who 
saw  him  thought  that  he  was  going  to  be 
dangerously  ill.  One  day,  while  brooding  over 
the  past  summer,  the  thought  came  to  him  to 
write  a  novel  depicting  his  own  life-struggle 
between  right  and  wrong  and  his  final  repent- 
ance and  remorse.  The  idea  filled  him  with 
exalted  emotions.  He  would  make  it  an  artistic- 
ally disguised  confession  of  his  whole  vacillating- 
career  ;  he  would  show  himself  just  as  he  had 
been  and  was.  Irene  should  read  it.  She 
would  then  understand  the  depth  of  his  re- 
pentance and  might  perhaps  forgive  him. 

Filled  with  his  new-born  hope,  he  set  to  work. 
He  wrote  by  day,  by  night ;  his  very  heart's 
blood  seemed  to  drip  from  his  pen.  As  days 
passed  he  grew  paler  and  thinner;  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  strange  hectic  light  from  the  depths 


®he  ^omaufc  ot  a  ^outhcvn  (Town.         163 

of  their  dark  sockets.  Friends  who  met  him 
turned  from  him  with  pity  in  their  hearts. 
Some  thought  his  mind  was  going  astray. 

At  last  his  work  was  done;  the  final  page 
was  written.  On  his  way  to  his  publishers, 
he  had  to  stop  several  times  to  rest.  Entering 
the  office  he  came  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Prince- 
ton, one  of  the  firm,  and  his  warm  friend,  but 
the  latter  did  not  recognize  him. 

"  Whom  did  you  wish  to  see,  sir  ? "  Mr. 
Princeton  asked. 

"You,  Mr.  Princeton,  if  you  please." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  him  again,  and 
fell  back,  astonished. 

"  My  God,  Morton  !  this  can't  be  you ! " 

"  Yes."  And  a  smile  that  was  almost  repul- 
sive came  over  Edgar's  cadaverous  features. 
"  I  have  finished  a  book  for  you."  He  was 
running  the  tips  of  his  ink-dyed  fingers  aimlessly 
over  the  package  on  his  arm.  "  I  intended  to 
copy  it  again,  but  when  I  started  to  do  so  I — 
I  found  that  there  would  be  few,  if  any,  changes 
to  make.  When  I  see  the  proofs  I  can  attend 
to  them." 

"  We  shall  read  it  and  announce  it  at  once, 
my  dear  boy,"  said  the  publisher,  sympathetic- 


164  ^  putf  (^onfmax, 

ally.  "  We  are  having  calls  for  a  new  book 
from  you  on  all  sides.  But  now,  my  poor  dear 
fellow,  you  must  go  home  and  take  a  rest ;  you 
will  be  ill  f  you  have  Avorked  too  hard." 

The  next  morning,  as  Edgar  was  sitting  at 
his  window  gazing  listlessly  out  into  the  street, 
a  boy  came  to  tell  him  that  the  publishers 
wanted  to  see  him  about  his  manuscript.  A 
shiver  ran  over  him.  He  replied  that  he  would 
go  at  once.  He  was  filled  with  misgivings. 
Had  they  found  his  work  unworthy  of  publica- 
tion ?  Could  he,  after  all,  in  his  condition  of 
mind  and  body,  have  been  able  to  do  himself 
justice.  His  heart  sank  very  low  indeed ;  he 
began  to  fear  that  he  had  made  a  great  mistake. 
The  subject  had  interested  him,  of  course,  but 
could  he  have  made  it  interesting  to  others  ? 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Princeton  ?  "  he  asked,  a 
few  moments  later,  as  he  stood  at  the  publisher's 
desk. 

The  old  man  rose,  and  putting  his  arm 
around  Morton,  led  him  silently  into  an  adjoin- 
ing room.  Morton's  heart  was  in  his  mouth. 
When  they  were  seated  side  by  side,  Mr.  Prince- 
ton said,  huskily: 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  may  not  be  infallible  in  my 


the  Itomimrc  oi  a  ^outUcrw  ^mw,         165 

judgment,  but  I  think  your  story  is  the  strong- 
est piece  o£  work  of  the  kind  ever  written — 
ever  written,  I  say.  I  read  it  last  night,  and 
could  not  put  it  down  till  finished.  Old  as  I 
am,  I  cried  over  it.  Two  of  our  readers  are 
looking  over  it  together  in  the  office  now,  and 
they  are  wildly  enthusiastic.  My  boy,  your 
fame  and  fortune  are  made.  Your  first  book 
showed  wonderful  promise ;  this  is  perfectly 
grand.  It  has  more  purity  of  soul,  more  moral 
tone  in  it  than  anything  I  ever  read." 

Mr.  Princeton  felt  his  companion  lean  against 
him.     He  looked  at  his  face. 

He  had  swooned. 


166  ^  ^\nU  (^mmm» 


CHAPTER  XV. 

In  her  melanclioly  life  Irene  had  but  one 
desire — to  help  her  father  out  of  his  financial 
troubles.  She  could  think  of  little  else,  for  she 
noticed  the  dear  old  face  growing  graver  and 
sadder  day  by  day. 

"  Papa,  tell  me  about  your  debts,"  she  said, 
one  day,  surprising  a  troubled  look  in  his  eyes ; 
and  she  came  and  sat  down  by  hmi  at  the  cheer- 
ful wood  fire. 

He  put  his  hand  upon  her  head  and  with 
quivering  fingers  brushed  back  her  hair  from 
her  forehead.  The  frown  which  had  been 
fretting  his  brow  aU  day  vanished. 

"  Don't  trouble  your  young  head  about  me, 
pet,"  he  said,  smiling  faintly.  "  We  shall  pull 
through  somehow.  All  we  need  is  five  hun- 
dred dollars,  and  that  will  come  somehow. 
I  am  not  worthy  to  be  the  father  of  such  a  girl 
as  you.  I  was  always  a  poor  manager,  and 
here  of  late,  I  have  been  worse  than  ever." 


©he  Romance  a(  a  ^oMthcfn  ®owtt.        167 

She  sat  down  on  his  knee,  nestled  into  his 
arms,  and  closed  his  mouth  with  a  tender  kiss. 
Then  she  ran  from  the  room  to  keep  him  from 
seeing  the  tears  which  were  springing  into  her 
eyes. 

She  watched  every  mail  with  deep  anxiety, 
hoping  to  hear  that  the  publishers  had  accepted 
her  novel.  One  day,  when  her  father  came 
home  at  noon,  he  said : 

"  Here  is  a  bulky  letter  for  you,  my  dear. 
It  is  addressed  in  a  masculine  hand  and  is  from 
New  York." 

Her  heart  rose  into  her  mouth.  She  held 
her  breath,  and  was  almost  afraid  to  look  at  the 
letter.  What  if  he  had  written  ?  Mr.  Stanton 
gave  it  to  her.  She  did  not  touch  it.  It  fell 
into  her  lap,  and  she  sat,  mute  and  motionless, 
looking  at  it  with  flashing  eyes,  her  face  paling, 
and  her  nostrils  quivering.  She  had  recognized 
Edgar  Morton's  handwriting.  Presently  she 
bit  her  lip  and  a  slight  angry  flush  came  into 
her  face.  Then  she  sat  up  very  erectly,  and 
looked  at  her  father. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  ex- 
citement and  enforced  calmness — "Papa,  you 
said  once,  after  Mr.  Dudley  left,  that  he  had 


168  i^  gtut«  mxUm^, 

given    you    his   address ;    do   you    rememlDer 
it?" 

The  old  man,  who  had  already  recognized 
the  handwriting  on  the  letter,  looked  at  his 
daughter  with  kindling  eyes. 

"  Yes,  pet,"  and  as  he  gave  her  the  address, 
he  dropped  his  head,  flattering  himself  that 
he  appeared  very  unsuspecting. 

"  New  York?  "  she  repeated  coldly;  "surely 
not  New  York?" 

"  Yes,  New  York,"  the  moving  light  still  in 
his  eyes.  "I  asked  him  again,  to  make  sure, 
for  I  thought  he  was  going  back  to  Boston, 
but  he  repeated  that  it  was  New  York.  I  sup- 
pose he  decided  to  go  there  after  he  left  us, 
you  know." 

Irene  went  into  her  study.  Pale  and  agi- 
tated, she  sat  down  at  her  desk,  put  the  letter, 
unopened,  into  a  large  envelope,  sealed  it  care- 
fully, addressed  it,  and  sent  it  to  the  post-office 
by  Judas.  Then  she  lowered  her  white  face 
upon  the  desk  and  remained  there — as  if  in 
deep  sleep — tiU  she  heard  the  dinner-bell. 
She  rose,  forced  a  bright  look  into  her  face, 
and  went  to  walk  out  to  dinner  with  her  father. 
As  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm,  she  smiled  and 


®Uc  ^Umatttc  oi  h  ^outhcvn  ©own.         169 

told  him  playfully  that  he  Avas  the  dearest  man 
in  all  the  world.  And  all  through  the  meal, 
he,  poor,  kind  father  !  uninitiated,  as  men 
always  are,  in  the  mysterious  wiles  of  woman- 
kind, believed  that  the  letter  he  had  brought 
had  chased  the  deepest  of  her  cares  away, 
and  was  content. 

Late  one  afternoon  she  stood  on  the  veranda 
watching  the  dead  leaves  twirl  down  to  the 
dying  grass.  The  day  was  cloudy.  She  had 
succeeded  in  making  herself  believe  that  her 
heart  had  grown  quite  indifferent  to  the  man 
she  had  once  loved  so  fondly.  All  she  cared 
for  now,  she  told  herself,  was  to  succeed  with 
her  writings.  She  had  sent  Judas  for  the  mail, 
and  was  waiting  impatiently  in  expectation  of 
getting  a  letter  from  the  publishers  to  whom 
she  had  sent  her  novel.  Success  meant  so 
much  to  her — and  to  her  father  also — that  she 
felt  that  the  rejection  of  her  story  would  almost 
kill  her. 

At  last,  through  the  paling  of  the  front 
fence,  she  saw  the  dwarf  lazily  sauntering  up 
the  sidewalk.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart, 
and  turned  her  back  to  the  ©"ate.  Would  he 
bring  her  the  letter  she  was  so  anxiously  expect- 


170  %  PutjJ  (^anfemv, 

ing?  She  heard  the  click  of  the  gate  as  it 
closed,  but  even  then  did  not  look  round.  Her 
eyes  had  a  strange  stare  in  their  depths.  So 
much  did  she  dread  disappointment  that  she 
did  not  look  at  the  boy  as  he  came  clattering  in 
his  thick  new  shoes  up  the  steps  to  her  side. 

"  Miss  Inie,"  he  panted,  with  a  broad  grin, 
"I  got  suppen  fer  you." 

She  looked  down  at  him.  He  was  holding  a 
package  toward  her. 

"  No  letter?"  she  said,  in  a  suppressed  tone, 
and  the  old  sickening  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment came  over  her  again. 

She  took  the  package,  and,  looking  it  over, 
saw  in  the  upper  left-hand  corner,  the  words, 
"  From  Lang  &  Princeton,  Publishers,  New 
York." 

Her  manuscript  returned  ! 

Her  heart  stood  still.  She  held  the  package 
before  her  for  a  moment.  Then  it  dawned 
upon  her  dull,  dead  comprehension  that  Judas 
was  eying  her  in  silent  astonishment,  and  pride 
came  to  her  aid.  She  smiled,  trying  to  hide 
her  pain  even  from  him,  but  her  lips  were  as 
tense  and  chill  as  dead  ones. 

"It's  nothing,  Judas,  thank  you  for  going," 


^U  ^amancc  oi  ix  ^autltevn  ®oau.         171 

said  she,  huskily,  "  I  shall  not  forget  you  Avhen 
Christmas  comes ;  it  is  not  far  off  now." 

"  Twenty-nine  clays,  Miss  Inie,"  cried  the 
child,  joyfully ;  "  marster  tell  mammy  so  dis 
mawnm'.  Miss  Inie,  does  yer  know  is  de 
marshal  gwine  ter  'low  de  boys  ter  pop  fire- 
crackers in  de  street  dis  Chris'mus?  Dey  oon 
let  um  las'  time,  kase  some  um  tetch  off  Mr. 
Martin's  barn  en  stable." 

"  I  hope  so,  Judas,"  the  pale  girl  returned, 
smiling  stonily. 

She  turned  into  the  hall  and  went  slowly 
back  to  her  study.  With  a  sigh  she  put  the 
unopened  package  upon  her  desk  and  left  the 
room. 

"  So  ends  my  dream  !  It  has  lasted  since  I 
was  a  little  child,"  she  said,  firmly.  "I  was 
mistaken.     He  was  mistaken  ;  or  perhaps  he 

only  led  me  to  believe  in  order  to "      She 

paused,  and  her  face  became  very  white.  "  No, 
no,"  she  went  on,  "  he  could  not  have  been  so 
despicable.  I  should  go  mad  if  that  were 
added  to  it  all.  No,  he  thought  as  I  did.  I 
am  sure  of  that — almost." 

When  her  father  returned  an  hour  later  he 
found  her,  seated  in  front  of  the  sitting-room 


172  %  gtuf«  (l^onteot 

fire.  He  had  made  a  long  journey  into  the 
country  to  see  an  old  friend  from  whom  he  had 
hoped  to  borrow  some  money  to  pay  the  debt  that 
was  threatening  him  with  ruin.  Irene  read  his 
failure  in  his  face  and  in  his  slow  motions  as 
he  took  off  his  overcoat  and  hung  it  up.  She 
saw,  also,  that  he  was  dreading  to  speak  of  his 
fruitless  effort  as  he  sat  down  by  her  and  spread 
his  cold  hands  out  to  the  fire.  She  thought  it 
best  to  have  the  subject  over  with  at  once. 

"  You  did  not  get  what  you  went  after, 
papa,"  she  said,  assuming  a  light  tone  ;  "  but 
don't  let  that  worry  you.  You  are  too  old 
and  frail  now  to  have  trouble.  Don't  think 
about  it."  And  she  laid  her  hand  caressingly 
on  his  knee. 

He  tried  to  reply,  but  choked  a  little  and 
remained  silent.  Presently  he  rose,  with  a 
little  t\vinkle  of  pleasure  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  forgot,"  said  he,  going  to  his  overcoat 
and  returning  with  a  letter.  "  Here  is  some- 
thing for  you.  I  got  it  at  the  office  this  morn- 
ing before  I  started  to  the  country.  I  have 
been  carrying  it  all  day." 

She  took  it,  feeling  the  same  sharp  pang 
that  had  struck  her  on  the  veranda,  for  the 


®hc  ^lomaiKC  of  a  <^outhcvtt  (Touw.  173 

envelope's  corner  bore  in  printed  letters,  "  Lang 
&  Princeton,  Publishers,  New  York." 

It  was  only  the  letter  accompanying  the 
rejected  manuscript  which  she  had  already 
received,  she  thought,  and  she  regretted  that  the 
two  had  not  arrived  together.  Her  father's  eyes 
were  upon  her  inquiringly,  and  she  suddenly 
faced  a  new  fear.  She  had  not  told  him  of  her 
work,  and  her  little  plan  to  help  him,  and  he 
must  not  now  suspect  her  great  disappoint- 
ment ;  it  would  make  him  more  unhappy.  She 
dropped  the  letter  into  her  lap,  placed  her  inter- 
locked hands  upon  it,  and  pretended  to  forget 
it. 

"  Why  don't  you  read  it  ?  "  the  old  man 
asked. 

Then,  to  guard  her  secret,  she  rose  with 
deceptive  jaunt  and  went  to  a  window  as  if  to 
catch  the  light  from  the  pale  western  sky. 
Opening  the  letter,  she  purposely  let  the  en- 
velope fall  to  the  floor,  that  he  might  see  she 
was  reading.  When  she  drew  out  the  written 
sheet  a  folded  paper  and  a  crisp  pink  slip  were 
disclosed.  She  looked  at  them  with  kindling- 
curiosity,  for  their  import  did  not  dawn  upon 
her.     The  letter  ran  : 


174  ^  Put^  ^anUmx, 

"  Dear  Miss  Stanton — 

"  We  owe  you  apologies  for  our  delay  in 
reporting  upon  your  MS.  Several  members  of 
our  staff  have  been  away  this  fall,  and  so  many 
manuscripts  came  during  their  absence  that  we 
were  unable  to  give  yours  a  reading  till  quite 
recently.  Otherwise  you  would  have  heard 
from  us  at  once,  for  we  assure  you  yours  is 
one  of  the  finest  and  most  remarkable  novels  we 
have  been  able  to  secure  in  years.  As  you 
say  you  are  not  famiHar  with  the  terms  usually 
extended  to  authors  by  publishers,  and  as  we 
hope  to  be  favored  with  other  work  from  you 
in  the  future,  we  have  made  an  exception  in  your 
case,  and  you  will  find  the  terms  of  enclosed  con- 
tract as  liberal  even  as  those  allowed  to  well- 
established  writers.  We  have  not  read  any- 
thing in  late  years  more  touching  and  strong, 
or  better  finished,  than  your  book.  The  only 
American  work  from  the  pen  of  a  young  writer 
which  equals  it  is  '  Evolved,'  a  novel  which  we 
have  just  issued,  by  Edgar  Morton. 

"  In  consideration  of  your  present  need  of 
money,  as  mentioned  in  your  letter,  we  are 
pleased  to  enclose  our  check  for  one  thousand 
dollars,  having  decided  to  publish  your   work 


5Chc  ^omattce  ot  a  ^outhcvw  (Toaiu  175 

first  as  a  serial  in  our  magazine.  Later  we  will 
issue  the  story  in  book-form.  If  the  terms  of 
the  enclosed  contract  are  satisfactory,  please 
sign  the  same  and  return  to  us  with  your 
receipt  for  the  check.  Thanking  you  for  send- 
ing your  first  work  to  us,  and  hoping  that  we 
may  soon  have  something  more  from  your  pen, 
we  are 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  Lang  &  Princeton." 

The  papers  in  Irene's  hand  were  quivering. 
She  glanced  at  her  father.  His  back  was 
turned  to  her,  and  he  was  looking  steadily  into 
the  fire.  The  news  was  almost  too  ffood  to  be 
true.  Then  she  bethought  herself  of  the  un- 
opened package,  and,  full  of  delicious  wonder, 
hastened  to  find  it. 

It  was  dark  in  her  little  study,  and  she 
lighted  a  lamp  with  trembling  hands.  On 
opening  the  parcel  she  found  a  book  of  about 
the  same  bulk  as  the  manuscript  which  she  had 
sent  to  the  publishers.  In  gilt  letters,  on  the 
Russian-leather  cover,  she  read,  "  Evolved :  A 
Novel.     Edgar  Morton." 

She  sank  into  a  chaii"  and  looked  once  more 


176  ^  pute  (ftoxiUmt, 

at  the  letter  and  the  cheek,  the  blood  slowly 
flowing  into  her  cheeks.  Then  she  bethought 
herself  of  her  father,  and,  thrilling  with  inex- 
pressible joy,  she  hastened  to  where  he  sat  in 
the  firelight.  His  hands  were  clasped  over  his 
mud-spattered  knee,  and  a  great  weight  of  de- 
pression rested  on  him.  She  entered  so  softly 
that  he  did  not  hear  her,  and  stood  a  little  be- 
hind him,  hesitating  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
laid  the  check  across  the  letter,  and  handed  them 
to  him  over  his  shoulder.  As  he  took  them 
he  looked  up  into  her  eyes  in  an  absent-minded 
way,  then  he  put  on  his  spectacles  and  read 
them  in  the  firelight.  She  was  watching  him 
very  closely,  her  joyous  heart  in  her  mouth. 
She  saw  him  start ;  a  strange  look  of  perplexity 
came  over  his  face.  He  read  the  check  again, 
and  then  looked  up  to  her  inquiringly. 

"It  is  all  for  you,  papa  dear,"  she  said, 
smihng  through  her  tears.  "I  should  not  care 
for  success  but  to  help  you.  It  has  made  me 
so  happy ! " 

He  seemed  to  comprehend.  He  tried  to 
hft  his  eyes  again  to  hers,  but  failed.  His 
head  dropped  a  trifle.  The  red  glow  of  tlie 
fire  shone   through  his  straggling  gray  hairs, 


<Lhc  ^onuuKC  ot  n  ^mthtm  iijomu         177 

the  papers  in  his  hands  quivered  pitifully. 
His  head  sank  still  lower,  and  his  shoulders 
rose  and  fell  significantly.  Irene  stole  into  the 
dining-room  and  without  a  word  of  warning 
threw  her  arms  around  her  aunt's  neck,  who 
was  scolding  old  Del  for  having  made  the  coif ee 
too  weak.  The  elder  woman  kissed  her  niece 
fondly,  wondering  the  while  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  3^et  not  daring  to  ask. 

At  the  tea-table,  a  moment  later,  Mr.  Stan- 
ton's face  was  full  of  warmth.  When  he  bowed 
his  head  to  ask  the  blessing  in  his  usual  way, 
he  failed.  His  lips  moved  mutely  for  a  con- 
secrated moment,  then  he  raised  his  head  and 
said  "  Amen,"  and  avoided  Mrs.  Livingston's 
surprised  gaze  over  the  steaming  coffee-pot. 

Aunt  MilHe,  as  she  brought  in  the  dishes, 
threw  a  wondering  glance  at  the  faces  around  the 
table,  and  then  went  back  to  Uncle  Tony,  who 
was  toasting  his  shins  over  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
hungrily  eyeing  a  pan  of  hot  biscuits  in  the 
stove. 

"Suppen  done  happen  ter  marster,  Tony," 

she   said;  "yer    cayn't  fool  dis   yer   chicken. 

I  seed  'im  many  er  year  in  en  out  but  never 

des  zackly  lak  he  look  now.     I  do  know  it  beat 

12 


178  §^  '^wU  a^owU^m. 

me  sho  !  He  des  set  deli  en  let  liis  coffee  git 
col',  en  w'en  Miss  Inie  is  busy  wid  'er  eatin', 
he  look  lak  lie  could  eat  'er  whole.  En  whut 
beat  all,  Miz  Liverston  seem  'bout  ez  much  set 
back  ez  I  is.  Seem  lak  she  ain't  mek  head 
nur  tail  out'n  it." 

Irene  left  the  old  people  at  the  table,  and 
went  to  get  Edgar  Morton's  new  novel.  She 
thought  that  Lang  &  Princeton  had  sent  it,  be- 
cause they  had  mentioned  it  in  their  letter  : 
it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  it  might  have  come 
from  some  one  else. 

She  was  reading  it  in  the  sitting-room,  her 
pretty  feet  pushed  out  toward  the  fire,  when 
her  aunt  came  in  with  an  altered  face  and  a 
meltingmien.  She  stopped  behind  Irene's  chair, 
and,  bending  back  the  girl's  head,  kissed  her  ten- 
derly, very  tenderly,  on  the  lips.  Mr.  Stanton, 
who  had  taken  a  seat  at  the  fire,  pretended  not 
to  notice  the  show  of  affection  between  the  two. 
He  looked  steadily  at  a  black  cat  asleep  on 
the  hearthrug,  and  put  down  his  hand  to  stroke 
it  gently,  making  the  animal  pur  and  contract 
its  claws  in  the  soft  woollen  texture. 

Mrs.  Livingston  sat  down  at  the  piano  for 
the   first  time  since  Mrs.  Stanton's  death.     It 


^\it  ^{oiuHMCc  of  ii  Southern  iioutt.         179 

was  a  quaint  old  air  that  she  played,  and  her  fin- 
gers had  grown  stiff  from  want  of  practice,  but 
the  shadows  on  the  walls  appeared  to  dance 
undulatingly  to  the  music,  and  the  blended  fire 
and  lamplight  seemed  an  enchanted  veil  that 
had  fallen  upon  the  room.  And  Irene  sat 
upon  a  shrine  before  two  old  worshippers,  and 
all  unconscious  of  their  wordless  adoration 
read  "  Evolved."  They  watched  her  changing 
face  with  displeasure.  They  wanted  to  take 
the  book  from  her,  for  its  contents  seemed  to 
throw  a  damper  upon  her  happiness.  They 
heard  her  sigh  more  than  once,  and  her  eyes 
began  to  swim  in  unshed  tears.  Every  page 
reminded  Irene  of  the  past  summer,  and  of 
Marshal  Dudley.  The  hero  of  the  story  seemed 
strangely  to  possess  his  soul.  She  could  not  lay 
the  book  down.  It  chained  her  every  thought, 
roused  her  deepest  emotions.  She  read  on  till 
late  into  the  night.  Her  father  retu-ed,  with  a 
look  of  troubled  perplexity  in  his  face  ;  and 
when  the  clock  struck  twelve  Mrs.  Livinofston 
came  and  gently  laid  her  hand  across  the  page. 
"  Darling,  you  must  not  read  longer,"  she 
said  ;  "  it  will  make  you  sick.  See,  the  fire  is 
dying  down,  and  it  is  twelve  o'clock," 


180  g^  Putt  (!i;miff^,^ov. 

"  Twelve  o'clock  !  "  rej)eated  IrenCj  as  if  in 
a  dream.  "  Why,  I  did  not  know  it  was  so 
late.     Have  I  kept  you  waiting,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  we  are  all  so  happy  over  your 
good  fortune  that  we  wanted  to  sit  up  longer 
to-night.     God  has  been  good  to  us,  dear." 

"  This  story  is  very  interesting,"  said  Irene, 
closing  the  book,  and  turning  away  with  her 
aunt  to  go  upstairs.  "  I  could  not  drop  it. 
Perhaps  it  interested  me  more  particularly 
because  it  is  by  Edgar  Morton,  and  was  sent 
to  me  by  the  publishers  who  have  been  so  good 
to  me.  Besides,  I  was  once  so  silly  as  to  think, 
from  reading  his  other  novel :  ^  Transgression,' 
that  he  was  not  at  heart  a  really  good  man.  I 
remember  I  told  Mr.— Mr.  Dudley  that  I  felt 
that  way ;  but  this  is  so  grand,  so  pure,  that  I 
see  I  wronged  him." 

The  first  thing  after  breakfast  next  morning 
Irene  slipped  away  to  her  study  to  finish  the 
book  undisturbed.  She  bent  over  it  and  at  once 
became  as  deeply  absorbed  as  on  the  previous 
evening.  A  strange  alternating  feeling  of  ela- 
tion and  regret  possessed  her.  Once  she  laid 
the  book  down,  trembling  as  she  confronted  a 
strange  question.     In  some  things  the  hero  was 


^hc  Alamance  oi  n  ^^outhcvn  eou'jt.         181 

so  like  Dudley  !  Then  she  remembered  that 
he  had  said  he  knew  the  author  of  "  Transsrres- 
sion."  Could  Dudley  have  had  anything  to 
do  with  writing"  the  book?  She  smiled  feebly  at 
the  idea,  and  read  on,  her  whole  soul  wrapped 
up  in  the  story.  Just  as  she  reached  the 
point  Avhere  the  hero  confesses  to  the  heiress 
to  whom  he  is  engaged,  that  he  loves  another, 
Mrs.  Livingston  came  to  ask  some  question 
about  a  dress. 

Irene  lifted  eyes  which  shone  with  light 
from  within,  stared  her  aunt  straight  but 
vacantly  in  the  face,  and  then  looked  down 
again,  without  a  word,  to  the  pages  before  her. 
Mrs.  Livingston  looked  at  her  scrutinizingly, 
an  expression  of  pain  in  her  face,  and  turned 
away. 

The  story  was  almost  ended.  The  hero  was 
in  abject  despair.  The  girl  he  really  loved  had 
driven  him  away,  and  refused  to  listen  to  him. 
She  returned  all  his  letters  unopened.  There 
were  but  a  few  more  leaves  to  turn.  Irene's 
heart  felt  as  if  it  were  burstino^.  A  veil  of 
tears  was  before  her  eyes.  Then  she  noticed 
that  two  of  the  remaining  pages  had  been 
carefully   pasted   together.      Separating   them 


182  %  "^ixU  (^mU^M', 

with  a  paper-knife,  she  found  a  thin  piece  of 
paper  covered  with  Marshal  Dudley's  writing. 
Her  features  waxed  stone-like ;  she  could  not 
imagine  what  it  meant.     She  read: 

"  I  have  sought  this  way  of  reaching  you — 
of  trying  to  make  you  understand  the  fathom- 
less depth  of  my  love,  the  depth  and  burthen 
of  my  woe.  I  am  Edgar  Morton.  I  assumed 
the  name  of  Dudley  that  I  might  pursue  my 
studies  in  the  South  without  being  known  as 
an  author.  As  I  have  described  the  charac- 
ter of  Alfred  Morgan  in  '  Evolved ',  so  was 
mine.  All  my  life  I  have  been  continually 
waverino'  between  rig-ht  and  wronof — risino* 
and  falling  between  the  exalted  and  the  low. 
Until  I  met  you,  I  had  never  known  the 
supreme  satisfaction  of  right-doing.  I  in- 
tended to  tell  you  who  I  was,  but  after  your 
just  criticism  of  'Transgression'  that  day,  I 
did  not  have  the  courage  to  do  it.  Give  me 
one  more  chance.     I  would  die  to  see  you  and 

dear  old  G again.     Will  you  not  write  me 

a  single  line  of  forgiveness — you  who  are  so 
good,  so  generous  to  all  ?  I  have  confessed 
my  love    for  you    to  tlio  woman  to   whom    1 


®hc  ^Umuttfe  oi  a  ^outhnn  ^omx,        183 

was  engaged,  and  she  has  released  me  and  is, 
in  fact,  to  be  married  to  another.  You  have 
made  me  a  better  man  than  I  ever  hoped  to  be. 
I  love  you  with  all  my  soul  and  cannot  live 
without  you .  Can  you  forgive  me  ?  May  I 
come  down  to  see  you  ? 

"  Devotedly  yours, 

"  Edgar  Morton." 

Irene  closed  the  book.  She  was  alone. 
The  fire  had  died  out.  The  day  was  tottering 
down  the  hillside  of  the  world  into  the  valley 
of  night.  The  house  was  as  still  as  an  empty 
cathedral.  She  looked  from  a  window,  Mor- 
ton's letter  in  her  hands,  her  features  in  the 
grasp  of  contending  impulses.  The  wind  was 
blowing  a  drift  of  dry  leaves  against  the  door- 
steps. Irene  sighed  and  left  the  window. 
She  sat  down  at  her  desk,  took  up  her  pen,  and 
dipped  it  in  the  ink.  But  she  did  not  begin 
to  write,  and  the  ink  dried.  Again  and  again 
she  dipped  the  pen,  only  to  have  it  dry  in 
her  inactive  fingers. 

Before  her  hung  the  sketch  she  had  made 
from  the  cliff  on  the  mountain.  She  remem- 
bered how   she  had  sat  there   alone.     She  saw 


184  %  gtutc  (^onimtft 

him  come  down  the  winding  path  to  join  hei*; 
The  blood  came  into  her  face.  She  remem- 
bered how  she  had  sHpped  and  fallen — how 
he  had  risked  his  life  to  save  her !  Her 
face  grew  hot.  She  saw  herself  in  his  arms, 
her  face  close  to  his,  her  hair  blowing  around 
his  neck.  He  had  begged  her  to  let  him  fall 
and  save  herself.  Could  she  refuse  to  forgive 
that  man  ?  Her  face  grew  tremulous  with 
emotion,  tender  with  regrets.  She  dij)ped  her 
pen  again,  hurriedly  wrote  a  couple  of  lines 
and  her  name,  and  put  them  in  an  envelope. 
Then  she  went  out  to  Aunt  Millie's  cottage 
and  asked  for  Judas. 

"  He's  down  deh,  at  Miz  Moore's  house,"  re- 
plied Aunt  Millie ;  and  she  looked  in  wonder  at 
her  mistress's  face.  "  Why,  Miss  Inie,  I  b'lieve 
you  i:^  kotch  de  happy  fever  too,  lak  de  res'  er 
um.  I  ain'  nuver  seed  de  lak  yit.  De  good 
ole  time  is  back  ergin  sho  ;  en  it's  so  nigh 
Chris'mus-time  too — mighty  good  sign  !  " 

Irene  smiled  and  tripped  down  the  walk  to 
Mrs.  Moore's  cottage.  The  door  was  open, 
and  Mrs.  Moore,  who  was  working  within, 
invited  her  to  enter. 

"  Aunt  Millie   said  that  I  could   find  Judas 


5^hc  ^omanre  ot  a  ^outhcvu  eoun,         185 

here,"  she  explained,  as  she  entered  the  cottage 
door.  "  I  wanted  him  to  mail  a  letter  for  me. 
I  wish  it  to  leave  to-night." 

"  Yer  I  is.  Miss  Inie  !  "  exclaimed  the  little 
black,  from  a  dark  corner,  where  he  sat  on  the 
floor,  shelling  popcorn. 

"  You  can  finish  the  popcorn  when  you  get 
back,  Judas,"  said  the  woman,  wiping  her 
hands  on  her  apron,  and  apologizing  for  the 
disorder  of  her  house. 

"  Judas,  I  want  you  to  be  very  careful  with 
this  letter,"  said  Irene ;  "  you  must  not  lose 
it." 

"  Yesum,  yesum,"  promised  the  dwarf;  "I'll 
be  mighty  keerful.  Miss  Inie  ;  "  and  he  brushed 
the  chaff  from  his  diminutive  trousers,  and,  tak- 
ing the  letter,  bounded  away. 

After  sitting  a  while,  Hstening  to  Mrs. 
Moore's  talk  about  her  domestic  affairs,  Irene 
rose  to  go.  Just  then  she  heard  a  little 
whimper  from  a  waking  infant  on  a  bed  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  She  ran  to  it  impulsively, 
took  the  little  blue-eyed  creature  into  her  arms, 
and  kissed  it  several  tunes,  making  the  while 
sweet  motherly  sounds,  and  praising  its  beauty. 
Mrs.  Moore  flushed  red  with  pride. 


1B6  %  i^ttU  i^onU^^ov. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  notice  her,  Miss 
Irene,"  she  said,  tremulously ;  "  and  her  dress 
is  so  dirty.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
fond  of  children." 

Irene's  face  reddened  a  little,  and  she  pressed 
her  warm  cheek  to  the  tiny  Avhite  one.  Then, 
without  replying,  she  put  the  cliild  into  its 
mother's  arms.  The  last  reflex  of  day  illumined 
her  face  and  outlined  her  trim,  supj^le  figure  as 
she  tripped  up  the  path  past  the  negro  cottages, 
restraining  a  light  song  which  she  had  learned 
to  sing  when  she  was  a  happy  school-girl. 

Yule-tide  flowed  gently  in.  Christmas-day 
dawned  gray  and  cloud-draped,  but  with  it 
came  a  balmy  breath  from  the  south,  which 
made  the  day  as  warm  as  spring.  Early  in 
the  morning,  guns  began  to  boom  from  all 
sides  of  the  town.  Now  and  then  loud  yells 
rang  out  in  the  quiet  streets.  The  sky  re- 
flected a  great  blaze,  a  barrel  of  tar  was  burn- 
ing in  an  open  space  in  the  centre  of  the  town  ; 
and  half  a  dozen  church  bells  began  to  ring  out 
gleefully. 

A  score  of  black  fists  hammered  .upon  the 
doors  of  the  Stanton  residence. 


^fxt  ^omutore  ot  a  ^>utttcvu  ®otvtt.         187 

"  Cliris'mus  gif ,  Marse  Stanton  !  Cliris'mns 
gif',MissInie!  Christmas  gif ',  Miz  Liverson  !  " 
was  shouted  in  a  chorus  that   shook  the  walls. 

"  Christmas  gift  to  you  all !  "  cried  Mr. 
Stanton,  raising  a  window  and  putting  out  his 
head. 

"  ^^Q  got  yer,  marster ;  we  got  yer  ;  no  use 
backin'  out.  We  is  kotch  yer  wid  yo'  eyes 
sliet  dis  time  sho  ! "  said  Tony,  chuckling. 

Then  they  joined  other  negroes  that  were 
passing  by,  and  men,  women,  and  children  ran 
pell-mell  to  the  houses  of  neighbors,  repeating 
the  same  storm  of  raps  and  cries. 

"  Chrism'us  gif  ter  y'  all !  Chris'mus  gif 
ter  everybody  in  dis  yer  house,  ole  en  young  ! 
Glory  fer  Chris'mus  ! " 

But  by  the  time  the  whites  had  risen  at  the 
Stanton's,  the  servants  were  all  back,  huddled 
round  the  great  kitchen  fire,  which  Aunt  Millie 
had  made,  waiting  patiently  for  the  sitting- 
room  door  to  open.  Experience  had  taught 
them  what  to  expect.  You  might  as  well 
have  told  them  that  a  stone  tossed  in  air  would 
not  return  to  earth  as  that  the  members  of  the 
Stanton  family  would  forget  them  on  that 
day. 


188  %  Putf  (i!>0nttmt. 

About  eight  o'clock  a  tiny  bell  rang  in  the 
sitting-room.  Every  black  mortal  stood  on  his 
feet.  Even  imperturbable  Aunt  Millie's  eyes 
shone  with  expectancy,  and  she  hastened  to 
dry  her  hands  on  a  dish-cloth  and  follow  the 
others.  They  entered  the  sitting-room  softly 
and  took  places  round  the  walls  in  chairs  which 
had  been  placed  for  them.  For  a  moment 
after  all  were  seated,  a  crackling  fire,  built  upon 
a  great  Yule  log  which  Tony  had  laid  away  to 
dry  six  months  before,  made  the  only  noise 
that  broke  the  stillness.  The  master,  near 
whom  sat  Irene  and  her  aunt,  opened  the 
big  family  Bible,  read  a  chapter,  and  then 
motioned  them  all  to  kneel. 

During  the  prayer  many  eyes  peered  cau- 
tiously through  fingers  that  masked  expectant 
faces.  Judas  dropped  slowly  down  till  he  sat 
on  the  floor,  so  as  to  peer  under  the  master's 
chair  to  see  where  the  Christmas  gifts  were 
hidden.  But  the  child  had  more  faith  than 
Thomas  of  old,  for  though  he  had  not  seen 
with  his  own  eyes,  his  faith  was  as  unshaken 
as  a  mountain  of  stone.  The  "  Amen  "  came 
so  suddenly  that,  in  attempting  to  get  up,  with 
his  hands   still  over   his  face,   he   bumped  his 


(The  ^^omuucc  of  a  ^^outhnu  aouu.         189 

woolly  head  against  his  chair ;  and  he  stood, 
looking  very  guilty,  under  Aunt  Millie's  re- 
proving eyes. 

"  My  foot  went  ter  sleep,"  he  said,  senten- 
tiously ;  "  it  tickles  mighty  funny  yit.  I  hatter 
set  down  on  it  so  long  while  marster  is  pray." 

"  You  des  wait  tell  I  git  er  hick'ry  ter  you, 
young  man,"  threatened  Aunt  Millie,  in  a  low 
tone  ;  "  I'll  mek  you  think  yo'  foot  ersleep — 
cuttin'  up  secli  oudacious  shines  yer  on  sech 
er  'casion." 

It  was  a  happy  throng  which  marched  out 
of  the  room  a  few  moments  later,  exclaiming 
in  chorus  :  "  Thankee,  marster ;  thankee.  Miss 
Inie ;  thankee,  Miz  Liverson ! "  for  they  had 
aU  received  just  such  gifts  as  they  most  needed 
and  desired.  Little  Judas  chuckled  and 
grinned  profusely  as  he  left  with  a  new  suit 
of  clothes,  a  pair  of  red-topped  boots,  and  a 
package  of  fireworks  and  candies. 

On  the  afternoon  of  that  day  Edgar  Morton 
arrived  in  the  town  and  walked  over  from  the 
hotel.  Care  and  ill-health  had  marred  the 
youthful  fullness  of  his  features,  but  there  was 
a  tremulous  look  of  happiness  in  his  eyes  that 


190  gi  ^uu  (E0\mm\ 

in  a  measure  atoned  for  it.  He  saw  no  one  on 
the  lawn  but  Judas. 

"Is  Miss  Irene  at  home?"  he  asked,  ap- 
proaching the  boy,  who  was  charging  an  ink- 
bottle  with  powder,  and  preparing  to  touch  it 
off  through  a  fuse. 

"  Yes,  suh,  I  b'heve  she  is,"  he  said,  faihng 
to  recognize  that  dehghtf  ul  acquaintance  of  his, 
who  used  to  toss  dimes  and  nickels  into  the  air 
to  see  him  scramble  for  them  in  the  grass. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  Judas?" 

Judas  eyed  him  intently  for  an  instant,  then 
he  said : 

"  Well,  suh  !  ef  it  ain't  Marse  Dudley,  sho ! " 

Morton  winced  a  little  at  the  name,  and 
waited  patiently,  with  his  eyes  on  the  house, 
while  Judas  told  him,  as  he  held  up  a  hand 
bound  in  blood-stained  rags,  that  a  white  boy 
had  invited  him  to  shoot  off  a  big  "kickin' 
hoss-pistol,  loaded  ter  de  top  wid  powder  en 
wet  wads — ^wet,  min'  yer,  en  chawed  tight. 
Did  yer  ever  ? 

"  Why,  Marse  Dudley,"  he  went  on,  expos- 
ing the  whites  of  his  eyes  comically — "  why, 
suh,  des  ez  soon  ez  dat  thing  go  off  I  keeled 
over    lak    er    dead   jay-bird.      I    thought    my 


u:hc  ^omanct  of  a  ^outhfvu  (Toa'tt.         191 

whole  side  is  split  off.  Ef  I'd  des  been  er  lill 
bio'irer  I'd  er  mash  dat  feller's  snout  tell  it's 
ez  mushy  ez  er  rotten  cucumber.  Mammy  sez 
powder  is  dangersome.  You  des  listen  fer  dis 
bottle  w'en  I  git  it  fix." 

In  response  to  Morton's  ring  a  little  black 
girl  opened  the  door,  and  looked  very  much 
astonished  when  she  recognized  him.  He  went 
into  the  parlor,  where  a  great  fire  was  burning. 
The  yellow  glow  cast  around  the  room  made 
the  sultry  day  without  seem  veritable  night 
by  contrast. 

He  did  not  sit  down.  His  heart  was  beating" 
furiously  ;  it  stood  still  as  he  recognized  Irene's 
light  step  on  the  stairs.  She  was  quite  pale, 
but  she  looked  unspeakably  happy  and  beau- 
tiful, in  her  black  gown,  as  she  lingered  for  a 
moment  in  the  haU.  In  that  moment  he  won- 
dered if  he  could  calmly  meet  the  dear  eyes  that 
had  haunted  him  all  durino-  his  absence.  But 
when  she  came  toward  him  in  the  firelight, 
and  he  saw  the  sweet  blending  of  sympathy, 
tenderness  and  joy  in  her  features,  his  eyes 
leapt  to  flame,  and  a  thrill  of  ineffable  de- 
light ran  through  his  veins. 

She  shyly  held  out  her  hand,  but  he  took 


192  ^  putc  €onitmx, 

her  yielding  form  into  his  arms  and  pressed  his 
Hps  to  hers. 

The  whistling  of  the  wind  outside  and  the 
rattling  of  the  windows  was  all  that  broke  the 
silence. 


THE   END. 


From  the  Press  of  the  Arena  Publishing  Company. 


Salome  Shepard,   Reformer. 

By  Helen  M.  Winslow.     A  New  England  story, 
paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  ^1.00. 


Price ; 


The  Law  of  Laws. 

By  S.  B.  Wait.     The  author  takes  advance  metaphysical 
grounds  on  the  origin,  nature,  and  destiny  of  the  soul. 

"It  is  offered  as  a  contribution  to  the  thought  of  that  unnumbered 
fraternity  of  spirit  whose  members  are  found  wherever  souls  are  sen- 
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